“Jumpin’ tarantulers!” boomed a cowboy. “Watch him, will ye? He’s usin’ his south paw!”
The first was a lightninglike bender, which coaxed a strike out of Hotch.
“That’s the way to start ’em, Chip!” cried Brad. “One, two, three—that’s the style.”
“Darn it, Chip,” cried Hotch, “why don’t you gi’ me a chance? Ain’t you a friend o’ mine?”
The catcher signaled for a wide one, but Hotch was making good use of his eyes, and allowed it to pass.
The third cut a corner of the plate. Hotch fouled it back of third base, and had the second strike called on him.
The next signal called for a drop. Frank started it pretty high, and Hotch grinned and shook his head. Then he looked dazed when the umpire called him out.
“Rotten!” grunted Hotch, throwing himself down beside Bleeker. “That last ball was over my shoulders.”
“You’re wrong, Hotch,” answered Bleek. “It was lower than that. Now, El,” he shouted, as the captain of the team went to bat, “lace it out. For the love of Mike, show Merriwell we’re alive.”
Darrel just managed to do that. He connected with the second one over, and Merry smothered it without leaving his tracks.