“Now, then,” shouted Darrel, coming down to the coaching line back of first, “nobody down, fellows! On your toes, everybody. Ginger up, and we’ll make a showing. Go down toward second, Len—go on! I’m here to keep you out of danger.”
Dart, the shortstop, picked up a bat and stepped to the plate. Merry got him for three balls and two strikes, and then Dart lined one out toward Brad. It was an easy one, but Brad’s fingers were all thumbs, and the ball went through him like a sieve. The fielder raced in and picked up the ball, whipping it over to second just an instant too late. Dart reached the bag, and Blunt, apparently, forgot that Lenaway was on third.
“The ball, Barzy!” cried Merriwell.
Sudden realization of the fact that the man on third had taken a dangerous lead toward home startled Blunt. He threw to the plate instead of to Merry, and he threw wild. While the catcher was chasing the ball Lenaway got across the first score, and Dart went to third.
There was much glorying in the Gold Hill section of the grand stand. No one out, one run, and a man on third! Certainly the prospects were gratifying.
Mingo, the Mexican first baseman, followed Dart to bat. Merry struck him out, and then expeditiously fanned Rylman, the third baseman. Doolittle, right fielder, belied his name, and hoisted a fly to Spink in left field. Spink played beanbag, with it, dropped it, picked it up, then dropped it again. During the farce, Dart darted home and Doolittle gained second.
Stark, center fielder, fanned, and Doolittle died on third. But ragged support had given the Gold Hillers two runs. The swarthy-faced backstop pulled a long face and Merriwell walked to the bench, trying to figure out the errors in the first half of the second. They were so many that he had to give it up.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
WORSE—AND MORE OF IT.
Colonel Hawtrey was flying around the Gold Hill section of the stand, now and then rising in his seat to cheer or to hand a little good-natured raillery to his friend, Mr. Bradlaugh.