“It was a fluke, anyhow,” growled Welch. “Keene never pitched like that before, and I doubt if he ever will again.”
“What was that fellow trying to do who got hit by the ball in the seventh inning?” inquired Towne. “How did he happen to be on the field? I know him. He’s a freshman by the name of Lynch.”
“Oh, I suppose he’s one of Merriwell’s chums,” answered Welch, with scornfully curling lips. “He was sneaking in to get a word with Merriwell when that swift foul tip caught him and stretched him out cold.”
“There he is now,” said Dud, jerking his head toward Lynch. “If I remember right, he’s no friend of Merriwell.”
“Then why did Merriwell take such an interest in him after he got knocked silly? Why did Merriwell come here and work over the fellow the way he did?”
“Did he do that?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t stay on the bench, you know. I was here, and I saw them lug Lynch in. A doctor came along, but he wasn’t needed. Merriwell had the fellow’s shirt torn open at the throat and was chafing his wrists and moistening his forehead. By the time the doctor got ready to do something his assistance wasn’t needed.”
“That’s like Merriwell. He does those things for friends and foes alike. Let any one need assistance and he doesn’t stop to ask whether the person is a friend or an enemy.”
“Haw!” grunted Welch. “He’s a great poser. He’s always trying to show off. Of course he’s all swelled up now because he’s been coaching a varsity pitcher. They wanted me to let him give me points. Think of that! I’m not taking any coaching from a freshman. I notice that you didn’t grab at the proposition. Keene was the only one who——”
“And Keene pitched the game to-day and won it,” interrupted Towne, with a shade of regret in his voice.