“Rotten! rotten!” snapped one of the coachers. “Why don’t you keep your eyes open? Why don’t you do your sleeping nights? You can’t afford to get dopy on bases.”
“But everybody hits! everybody hits!” came from the coacher at the other side of the field. “We’ll keep right on. We’ll pound him off the rubber just the same.”
But, somehow, Sam’s nervousness had disappeared beneath the effect of Merriwell’s touch and words. Having caught the runner in this manner, Kates grew cool and collected, and the next man up promptly bit at two twisters that he did not touch.
“Now you’re pitching, old fellow,” laughed Dick. “The poor boy can’t see the ball. He’s yours, Sam—he’s yours. Eat him up!”
Kates had a huge drop, and this was the next ball he used. As he delivered it, however, he pretended it had slipped from his fingers, and he yelled for Buckhart to “look out.” The batter thought the ball too high, and made no move to swing. The sphere shot down in an astonishing manner and crossed the batter’s chest.
“Three strikes—out!” announced the umpire.
The deceived hitter stood as if dazed for a moment, and then savagely hurled his bat to the ground. Once more the Yale stand cheered, and Merriwell walked in to the bench with Kates, congratulating him with sincere pleasure.
“You’ve got to do your best work to-day, Sam,” said Dick. “You’ve got to prove yourself. I need you. Toleman won’t come out. He’s still sulking. I can’t do all the pitching. The games are coming too thick.”
“It wasn’t wholly my fault, was it, Merriwell?” asked Kates.
“Certainly not. Still, you’d better not kick about your support, for that gets the fellows sore. They know what they did, and they feel as rotten about it as any one can. You’ll hold Tufts down after this.”