Dick Merriwell's Heroic Players; Or, How the Yale Nine Won the Championship

by Burt L. Standish

Jim followed his first strike with a wide curve, but Reid only smiled as it broke away from the end of his bat, outside of the plate—a ball, and so counted against the pitcher. He would never play into Jim’s hands by striking at such a ball as that.

Then came a teasing, floater of a ball, that seemed sure to cut the plate right at the line of his waist. But again Reid smiled. He had been fooled twice by that ball at Cambridge, and he knew that, if he struck at it, his bat would swing through the empty air. For it was pitched so that at the last moment, just above the plate, it would stop dead and drop. That was just what it did this time, and again the umpire called “Ball!”

The next ball puzzled Reid. It was almost straight, and, as it came, he exulted. It looked like the sort of a ball he could hit, but he wanted to be sure. He was willing to sacrifice a hit now to get information for use later in the game, and he swung awkwardly, missing the ball by six inches or more. But he exulted inwardly, though a strike was called on him, and he knew that he had practically put himself at Jim’s mercy, for he had seen exactly what sort of a ball that was—and the next time he struck at it he wouldn’t miss. The next ball was a curve that fooled him completely, cutting in and across the plate so that he couldn’t hit it, and he struck out, but he was entirely contented. And so, when he went back to the bench and made his report, was Bowen.

Dick Merriwell knew exactly how tired Jim was. Also, he expected Harvard to play a waiting game, and trust to a fierce attack in the closing innings to produce a victory. He wanted to see Yale score and take the lead as early as possible, and he was prepared to take stiff chances for that purpose. If Jim were in the lead, Dick felt, it would be easier for him to stand up under the fierce strain of the game. Harvard, behind, would have to play a different game. And, therefore, when the Yale team, after Harvard had been blanked in the first inning, came in to take its turn at the bat, a plan of campaign, daring and aggressive, had been mapped out.

Sherman, batting first, looked hard at right field. He was known to the Harvard men as a right-field hitter—that is, it was almost certain that if he hit the ball at all, it would travel in that direction. He stood up to the plate, too, and, as Briggs delivered the first ball, swung viciously at it, with a full, free swing, and missed it. The Harvard infielders drew back, and the right fielder swung clear over to the fence, ready to make the catch if the ball went in that direction. But it didn’t. Even as the next ball left Briggs’ hand, the Yale captain shortened his grip on his bat, poked it forward, and bunted beautifully toward third base.

Sherman was a real sprinter, and there was a wild yell from the Yale crowd as he raced down to first. The Harvard third baseman was taken completely by surprise. It was the last thing he had expected Sherman to do. By the time he got his glove on the slow-rolling ball, Sherman was within a yard of first base, and the throw was hopeless, since there was no chance to make a put-out. But he threw, nevertheless, and then there was a sudden outbreak of excited, shrill yelling from all over the field and the stands.

Sherman, instead of stopping at first, had just touched the bag with his foot, and kept right on for second. Bowen ran angrily out in the diamond, shouting to the first baseman, who was also confused. He juggled the ball a moment, and then threw low to second, so that Sherman slid safely in, credited with a two-bagger on a bunt that hadn’t gone forty feet after it left his bat. The play was a masterpiece of planning and brilliant execution, daring in the extreme, and successful just because it was so daring that no one would have looked for it.

When Jackson came to the bat, the Harvard infield played close. It wasn’t going to be caught again by a bunt, and certainly this really looked like the time for a quick sacrifice play. Sherman took a long lead off second, ready to make a swift dash for third if Jackson hit the ball, but he was cautious, and, though Briggs threw twice to second in an effort to catch the Yale captain, Sherman got back safely to the base each time.

And then Jackson, who had tried to bunt at the first two balls pitched to him, but clumsily, and without success, got a ball that was just right, and pushed it right over the third baseman’s head for the prettiest of Texas Leaguers. Had the infielders not been drawn in to field a bunt, that seemed so likely to be the play, the ball would certainly have been caught; but, as it was, there was no chance for it to be reached, and Sherman raced home with the first run of the game, while Jackson got to second base on the left fielder’s hurried throw to the plate in a vain attempt to catch Sherman as he slid home.

Dick Merriwell, quiet and self-contained as he usually was, could not refrain from throwing his hat into the air as he sat on the Yale bench, and the enthusiasm of the Yale crowd may be guessed. Dick had planned the play out; but, unless he had had good, well-trained men on the team to take advantage of his plans, not all the planning in the world could have scored that run. He was proud of his team, and of the spirit with which it obeyed every order he gave, no matter how unlikely those orders seemed to be to produce a winning result.