“No use, Kates,” said Dick soberly. “You’ve got to pitch this game. I can’t.”
The time for the game with Manhattan to begin had arrived. Yale Umpty-ten was ready to take the field. The sturdy, bronzed, healthy-looking visitors were on their bench and ready for the fray. O’Mora, the first batter, was swinging two heavy clubs, in order to make one seem lighter when he stepped up to the plate.
Dick had been vainly trying to work the lameness out of his shoulder. His comrades of the team had watched him anxiously, for on him they relied. Unless Dick could pitch, they could not believe there was any chance of defeating the visitors.
But Dick could not pitch. He realized it, and at the last moment he told Kates to go in. Blessed Jones, captain of the team, heard Merriwell’s words, and his long, doleful face suddenly looked longer and more doleful than ever.
“All right, Dick,” he said soberly. “If you can’t, you can’t, and that settles it. Go ahead, Sam, and do your best.”
“Now, that’s encouraging!” muttered Kates, with a touch of bitterness, as he turned to Dick. “What show have I, Merriwell? There is not a man on the team who has any confidence in me.”
Dick seized Sam’s hand, held it with a firm grip, and looked straight into his eyes as he said:
“I haven’t lost confidence in you, Kates. Do your level best, old fellow. Do it for my sake—and for Yale.”
“I will!” exclaimed Sam, in a low tone, as he strode out to the pitcher’s position.
Of the teams dreaded by the Yale freshmen, the one they now faced had been regarded as among the most dangerous. The Manhattan College lads always played the game for all there was in it, and fought it out to the last gasp. There were no quitters among them, and therefore they were always dangerous.