CHAPTER XXXV.
WON IN THE NINTH.
Nerves, everywhere around the ball field, were drawn to breaking tension. On Merriwell alone depended the fortunes of the day for Ophir.
It was the last half of the ninth inning. There were two out and two on bases. A hit by Merriwell would certainly bring in the catcher, and, if the hit happened to be a two-bagger, a couple of scores might be put across the pan. This is as far as the wildest dreams of the Ophirites allowed them to go.
Ellis Darrel was keyed up to the highest pitch of achievement. If he could strike out Merriwell—something which he had not been able to do so far—the danger point would be safely passed. He made up his mind that he would fan him.
It was something which Darrel hated to do. There was no one whom Darrel thought more of, or to whom he owed a greater obligation, than Frank Merriwell, junior.
With face a little white and eyes gleaming restlessly Darrel shot a ball across the plate. It was not the sort of a ball Merry wanted, so he let it pass.
A discontented murmuring came from the wild-eyed Ophirites as the umpire called the strike.
There was silence in the crowded grand stand, over the bleachers, and among the automobiles. All eyes were fixed, as by a weird fascination, on the trampled ball field, holding the players steadily under gaze, and keeping nervous track of the base runners and of the lithe, slender figure holding the bat.
Darrel let fly with another ball. It was wide. The third one delivered was also too far off to count. But the next one——