“We’ve got to have three tallies, fellows,” was the word Frank was circulating among his men. “All together, now! We’ve fooled with these Gold Hill chaps long enough.”
Frank was cheerful, even sanguine. Even when Darrel fanned the first three men to come to bat, Merriwell continued to cheer up his discouraged teammates.
“We’re going to win,” said he confidently. “I’ve got a hunch to that effect.”
“Pretty soon it will be too late to start,” returned Blunt gloomily.
“It’s never too late to start, Barzy, so long as the under dog has a chance to bat.”
“Well, we’ve only got one more chance.”
“That will be enough—providing we improve it.”
During the first half of the ninth, Gold Hill came within a hair’s breadth of getting another run. A throw to the plate, relayed to Merriwell and passed to the backstop, who made a marvelous catch and tagged out the runner, was all that prevented the score from coming in.
“Who made that throw from deep center?” shouted Colonel Hawtrey, rising in his seat.
“Ballard, Merriwell’s chum,” some one replied.