While Benaway and Reckless pounded out flies and grounders for most of the team, Merry and Joe were off to one side warming to the work with jump balls, drops, and curves. Merry showed a skill and control that caused the Mexican backstop to open his eyes, and Joe, on his part, convinced Merry that he was all that Mr. Bradlaugh had cracked him up to be.
That Thursday afternoon’s work brought Frank entirely under the spell of the game—the sport he loved best of all. For weeks he had not had the leather sphere in his hands, and now the very touch of it thrilled him through and through.
On first meeting Blunt and Handy, Thursday afternoon, Frank was conscious of a feeling toward them that was distinctly unfriendly; and they, on their part, had as little to say to Frank as possible. But when, at five o’clock, a grand rush was made for the bathrooms in the gym, the magic of baseball had wrought its work, and every member of the team was full of hope, and enthusiasm, and friendly consideration for the rest of his teammates. Merriwell, Blunt, and Handy met and mingled just as they had always done, and just as though the disagreeable incident of the preceding afternoon had never happened.
This is not to say that Frank had forgotten Lenning, for such was far from being the case. He was still sorry for the friendless chap, and still eager to do him a good turn. What is more, he believed more firmly than ever that many barriers between Lenning and his former friends might be leveled if Lenning could have a part in Saturday’s game. It was queer how that conviction persisted and intensified in Merriwell’s mind.
Friday afternoon the Ophir nine played a game with a scrub team. The second nine was poor, for Merriwell had gathered in all the good material, and the regular team had no difficulty in running up a good, big score.
More and more Frank was pleased with the excellent work of Mexican Joe. The backstop was about as talkative as a cigar-store Indian. He played silently, swiftly, surely, and his signals showed such an intelligent comprehension of the right balls that Frank’s admiration was aroused.
“You’re a corker, Joe!” he declared, slapping the Mexican youth on the back when the afternoon’s work was over with.
A gratified smile crossed Joe’s swarthy face.
“You more of a corker as me,” he averred, and so eased himself of the only remark he had made during an hour and a half of hard work.
When Frank and his chums got back to the Ophir House, late that Friday afternoon, they were all tired, but happy and confident.