“By Jove! Kates is going to the bench!” exclaimed Ditson. “Who’ll pitch?”
“Merriwell,” said Poland. “He’s going into the box as sure as fate.”
“But he has a lame shoulder,” snickered Dagett.
“He’s let Kates lose the game,” said Toleman, “and now he’s going to show off. It’s too late for him to do anything.”
“That’s right,” nodded Ditson. “The game is over. Merriwell ought to be batted after sitting on the bench and letting those fellows have their own way.”
Mike Marone stood, hands on his hips, and laughed as Dick walked out to pitch.
“Like to limber up a little, Merriwell?” he inquired. “Give you all the time you want.”
“Thanks for your generosity,” said Dick. “I don’t believe I’ll bother to limber up.”
“Wow! wow! wow!” barked O’Mora. “He don’t have to limber up! He thinks we’re easy.”
Dick received the ball, and toed the slab in a position to pitch with his left hand. He could not use his right, but he hoped to check the enemy, just the same. The first ball delivered was so wild that it came near getting past Buckhart, who stopped it by a marvelous sidelong leap.