“It was control—control that did it,” asserted Cranch, the catcher. “On my word, Wilbur seemed able to put that ball precisely where he wanted to put it. Never caught a fellow with better control in all my life. And, say, Keene, where did you get that queer hinkey-dink curve that you use for a strike-out?”
“I got that where I got my control,” answered Keene. “I’m not too proud to acknowledge that I owe it all to Merriwell’s coaching. The first thing he did was to keep at me about perfect control. Said it was more important than speed or curves. Said it was the first thing a pitcher ought to work for. As for that little hinkey-dink curve, as you call it, I got that trying to throw Merriwell’s combination ball. I didn’t get the combination, but I did get a queer little quirky shoot, which I used in the game to-day.”
At this moment Greg McGregor made a lunge through the crowd and seized a lad who was trying to slip out.
“No, you don’t!” shouted Greg triumphantly. “Hi, fellows! Here he is! Here’s Merriwell! He was making a sneak.”
The freshman was dragged back into the room and surrounded by the bronzed, bare-armed, laughing youths.
“I take off my hat to you, Merriwell,” said Bill Leyden, with mocking seriousness. “When it comes to coaching pitchers, you seem to have me skinned a mile.”
Leyden was the baseball coach.
“Hi, Merriwell!” cried Ben Carter. “Heard about the horrible calamity that happened to your class team this afternoon? It’s simply awful.”
Now, the Yale freshmen had been playing Highbridge High, and, regarding the game as a cinch, the class of Umpty-ten had sent out a wretchedly small aggregation of rooters.
“What did they do?” laughed Dick. “Did they win by a score of about twenty to nothing?”