“Don’t get worried now because of those errors behind you. They’ve made one clean hit off you, and that’s all. This sort of a thing is likely to happen to any one. It might have happened to me.”
“But I don’t believe it,” muttered Kates. “They won’t back me up, Merriwell, old man.”
“They’ll learn to back you up before the season’s over.”
“Not if I throw away the first game in which I’m given a chance to pitch.”
“But you’re not throwing it away. Don’t look round, Kates. That fellow on third is going to try to steal home. He thinks neither of us sees him. He’s edging off. Now—nail him!”
Kates whirled like a flash, and found the runner well off third, balanced on his toes, and ready to make a sprint for the plate.
With a snap Sam sent the ball to Otis Fitch, who had covered the sack behind the runner’s back.
Nipped just in time, the Tufts man tried to plunge headlong back to third, but Fitch clutched the ball and nailed it onto him.
“You’re out!” shouted the umpire.
This piece of work caused the Yale men to cheer, while the Tufts lad who had been caught in his own attempt to work a bit of craft walked in to the bench shaking his hanging head.