“He’s a wonder,” Hodge again declared, referring to Dick Merriwell; “but he has never seen a regular game of ball in his life. He had some balls, mitts, and a bat out there in Pleasant Valley, where he has always lived, and you should have seen him get after the ball. Why, that boy has more sand than any fellow I ever saw, and he is made up of determination. He just sets his teeth and catches anything that is tossed up to him. Merry has begun to teach him to pitch.”
“Yes,” laughed Frank, “and he is furious because he can’t get onto the trick of throwing the double-shoot. He swears he’ll do it if he lives long enough.”
“That’s the true Merriwell stuff,” nodded Carson. “I’ve never seen him, but I’ll bet my life he’ll make a bird.”
“But it’s useless to think of playing him,” said Merriwell. “Besides being too young, he knows next to nothing about the game. I’m going to take him round with me this summer and give him all the education in the ball-playing line that I can.”
“Well, we’ll have to find a man,” said Berlin. “I know some players, and I’ll——”
Just then something happened that caused the trio to wheel about instantly.
CHAPTER XXIII.
DICK MERRIWELL’S NERVE.
“Take your dog away, sir! Take him away, or I’ll shoot him!”
A clear, boyish voice rang through the lobby of the hotel.
“Black” Ben Elrich, one of the best known sporting men and gamblers of the State, had just passed along the corridor, accompanied by two companions of his ilk and a huge, fierce-looking mastiff.