It was Hep Hoboson, the tramp. He descended from the bleachers and walked toward Dick, lazily dragging his feet.
The crowd shouted at him derisively and advised an officer to put him off the ground.
“Go back and sit down!” commanded the policeman. “If you don’t I’ll have to put you out.”
“I want to speak with me friend, Richard Merriwell,” said Hoboson, touching the brim of his dirty slouch hat. “Jest a word, please?”
Dick saw the tramp and was seized by a queer inclination to find out what Hoboson could do behind the bat. Immediately he approached the officer and said:
“It’s all right, sir; I’m going to use him in the game.”
“That’s where your head’s level,” chuckled Hoboson, pulling his hat still farther over his left eye. “We’ll paralyze this crowd with our remarkable battery work.”
Having cast off his tattered coat, the hobo adjusted the body protector and mitt, pulled a mask on, and took his place under the bat. Already he had told Dick what signals he would use.
“This will be a great game!” sneered one of the Rockfordites. “They must be crazy to use that dirty bummer. Can’t they get any one else?”
Evidently Hoboson heard these words, for he turned and wagged his mitt in the direction of the speaker.