“Keep your nerve, Clan,” called Merry. “Remember, it’s all up to you. Lace it out, old chap. Not that way,” he added, with a laugh, as the nervous Clancy swung at the sphere and missed.
Clancy ground his teeth, and into his wildly beating heart there entered the determination to do or die.
Again Darrel sent the ball at him. The bat moved a little in his hands, but did not come down.
“He had a notion!” some one yelled, as the umpire called a ball. “Coax him again, Darrel. He can’t get a hit!”
Once more Darrel “wound up,” and let the ball go. This time, to the dismay of the Ophirites, Clancy cracked it out. It sped hotly past the pitcher, and was finally scooped up by short.
The complexion of affairs had changed. The backstop was on third, and Clancy was hugging first. Handy went down to the coaching line. Merriwell, a smile on his face, stepped to the plate.
“All I want is a good one, Curly,” said he, “and we’ll sew up the game right here.”
A wild commotion broke out among the spectators. Those who had started to leave sat down again, and some who had left crowded back into the grand stand.
Was it possible, every onlooker was asking himself, that Ophir could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat in such a spectacular manner?
Merriwell was at the bat. Here was the point that aroused the wildest fears of Gold Hill, and the fondest hopes of Ophir.