Merriwell, with a terrific swing, met it squarely. With a smack that could be heard for half a mile in the quiet air, the bat started the ball skyward.
Wild cheers broke from the crowd, and the hardest cheering was done by Colonel Hawtrey. What did he care how that magnificent hit might benefit Ophir at the expense of Gold Hill? He had just witnessed the finest example of pluck in the face of overwhelming discouragement which it had ever been his lot to observe.
“Go it, Merriwell!” shouted the old colonel, hopping up and down and thrashing his arms in the air. “See how many bases you can tear off before the ball comes in.”
“There’s the greaser, spilling over the home plate!” howled a delirious voice.
“And here comes Clancy! Hoop-a-la! Watch him go. That red head looks like a comet.”
Blunt was standing up on the players’ bench, roaring at the top of his voice. What he said, however, was lost in the general hubbub.
While Clancy was covering the ground as though it burned his feet, the fielders were scrambling to get the ball. Farther and farther out they went, clear down into the distant oval of the cinder track.
Clancy came home—the score was tied. Still the ball was not coming back.
“Come in, Merry!” howled a hundred frantic voices. “Come in! You’ve knocked out a home run!”
This was really the case. The voices of the coachers were drowned in Merriwell’s ears, and he had to keep track of the ball himself. He was disposed to play safe. In the face of the general yell for him to get in the winning tally, however, he plunged for home with all the speed that was in him. By then the ball was coming, and those who had shouted for Merry to finish his circle of the bases were beginning to feel sorry that their ardor had carried them away.