A broadside of cheers went up from the spectators. Gradually the volume of sound separated into staccato notes and pauses, and clear and high rolled the chant, “Merry, Merry, good old Merry!”
Frank flushed. He wondered what that crowd would think if it knew what “good old Merry” had up his sleeve?
Off to one side, Darrel and Bleeker were working out. Both waved their hands in friendly greeting to Merriwell, as he and his swarthy-faced catcher began their preliminary practice.
While passing the balls to his companion, Merry was taking note of the work of the Gold Hillers. It was snappy, and quick, and true, and the way the horsehide flashed around and across the diamond was enough to make the Ophirites wonder a bit how that game was going to come out.
Darrel called in his men, and Frank sent the Ophir players into the field. Then began an exhibition which was not calculated to inspire much confidence in the Ophir partisans. Blunt muffed a throw from the home plate, Spink juggled a fly that had been lifted right into his hands, and Brad and Handy crashed together in trying to smother a low drive, and caused a ridiculous flurry between third base and second. Everybody seemed bent on showing just what a poor performer he could be, on occasion, and there were more jeers than cheers while Ophir was warming up.
Frank was thankful to have the comedy of errors cut short by the umpire, who had produced the little pasteboard box and was shaking the new ball out of it. The backstop was getting into his chest protector and turning his cap, preparatory to putting on the mask. Another moment, and Frank was in the pitcher’s box and the umpire had tossed him the white sphere. “Play ball!” came the command.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
POOR SUPPORT.
Frank was perfectly cool and composed, and never more thoroughly master of himself than when he stepped into the box. He knew that fate had played him up prominently while he had been in that part of the country, and that what fate had failed to do the florid imaginations of a good many people had been quick to accomplish.
Many of the spectators, no doubt, expected to find in young Merriwell a pitcher who was half a wizard and half a magician. Frank realized that onlookers of this class were due for a severe disappointment. He was glad of it, for he had no patience with the wild stories about him which had been flying over that section of the country.