Sam heard those words. Here, at least, seemed to be one person besides Merriwell who had confidence in him.
“I will biff it!” he decided.
He made good in a way that brought the Yale men up standing. Bat and ball cracked together, and the ball was laced into the field halfway between right and center.
Tucker, on the coaching line near third, waved his arms frantically and shrieked until he was purple in the face as Spratt came straddling on. Jack’s teeth were gleaming, his hands clenched, and his eyes bulging out of his head. As he crossed third the breath whistled from his nostrils with a sound that reminded one of a racehorse coming under the wire.
A fielder had the ball. He whipped it to the second baseman. The second baseman turned and lined it to the catcher.
“Slide!” shrieked Tucker and many others.
Spratt flung himself headlong, as if making a dive. Along the ground he scooted in a manner that seemed to proclaim the dry soil greased at that particular point.
Plunk!—the ball landed in the catcher’s mitt. Down he ducked and planted it between Spratt’s shoulders.
But Jack had both hands on the plate, and the umpire yelled: “Safe!”
To Dick Merriwell’s unspeakable satisfaction, Sam Kates had really won his own game.