“Bravo, Ballard!” cheered the colonel. “Now you’re playing ball! And you Mexican boy, down there!”
The Ophir catcher, with a queer movement, turned and looked up at the colonel.
“That was fine, do you hear?” went on the colonel enthusiastically. “I must shake hands with you for that.”
The backstop turned on his heel and walked to the benches with bowed head.
“It’s about over, Bradlaugh,” said the colonel, lifting his voice high in order to be heard through the buzz of conversation that surrounded him. “So far as results are concerned, we could just as well leave now.”
“Don’t be in a rush,” answered Mr. Bradlaugh. “I still think something is going to happen that will turn the tide in our favor.”
“Hope springs perennial in the breast of the baseball fan,” laughed Hawtrey.
“Merriwell gets to bat in the last half. He’ll do something.”
“How do you figure that?” demanded Hawtrey. “Spink is first up, then Reckless, then Mexican Joe, then Clancy. Merriwell comes after that. What chance has Merriwell got to do any stickwork? Three will fan before his turn at the plate—Darrel will look out for that.”
“Maybe Darrel will slip up in his calculations,” said the general manager doggedly.