Carl Henderson was the most reliable batter on the Yale team. The pitcher who could strike him out had good reason to plume himself on his feat.
“I’m not through yet,” declared Welch hastily. “I’m just getting his measure. In batting practice we always have three hits at the ball.”
“But there are others who wish to try their skill some time this afternoon, you know,” drawled Billings. “If they wait for you to get three hits, Welch, I’m afraid they won’t have a chance to try their luck at all.”
“Yar!” muttered Pumper to himself. “That bighead Billings always did make me sick! He says the varsity is weak in the box. I suppose the next thing that will happen he’ll write an article claiming the freshmen have a better pitcher than the varsity.”
“Don’t go off in a trance, Welch!” cried Leyden, as the ball whistled past the batter. “That ball was straight over the heart of the pan, but you didn’t see it, and I won’t call a strike on you.”
Again Pumper heard a titter, and by this time his blood was being pumped through his veins in such a manner that it caused a hammering sound in his ears. He glared at Dick with the most malicious hatred.
“Come on! come on!” he snapped. “I’m waiting! When you get through showing off and playing your monkey tricks perhaps you’ll settle down and pitch in a decent manner!”
Merriwell made no retort, but deliberately tossed up a straight ball that cut the plate in two equal halves.
Welch, however, could not believe Merriwell had thrown a straight one, and swinging in anticipation of a curve, he made another clean miss. After all his boasting he was making a sorry spectacle of himself.
Following this Pumper managed to foul the ball twice, but he ended by biting at another jump and being again declared out by Leyden.