A roar of laughter floated out over the field from the Ophirites in the grand stand and on the bleachers.
“What’s the use?” yelled some one. “He can’t see ’em!”
“Pound it on the nose the next time, Bleek!” begged a Gold Hiller.
“Kill it! Kill it!”
“Baste it out!”
Bleeker nerved himself for a supreme attempt, but in vain. Merry handed him an inshoot which found the hole in his bat, and he tramped to the benches with a flush of chagrin.
“Merry’s certainly all to the mustard,” he grunted, as he dropped down among his teammates. “He’s got some fancy capers that will fool the best of ’em. If Hotch connects with the ball it will be an accident.”
“Watch Merriwell, fellows,” urged Darrel. “See how he does it, then maybe you’ll be ready for him when you go in for your own stickwork.”
Obedient to orders, the Gold Hill players studied Merry and tried to get “wise” to his curves. But, just as they thought they had discovered something, they saw something else that proved the supposed discovery wasn’t any discovery at all.
Hotchkiss, second baseman for the Gold Hillers, was the next man up. He was a left-handed batter, and Frank, who could pitch equally well with either hand, fell back on his left wing.