“Everybody hits him!” shouted a voice from the bleachers. “Is this the great Frank Merriwell?”
Tears of rage came into Dick Merriwell’s eyes, and his hands were tightly clenched.
“Why doesn’t he use the double-shoot?” panted the boy. “He hasn’t tried it once.”
Frank was as calm as ever. Gresham, a stout, solid-looking chap, grinned tauntingly as he took his place to strike. Frank tried to pull him, but two balls were called. Then Merry put one over the corner, and Gresham batted it down to Ready.
Jack should have handled the ball, but he did not get it up in time to cut Gresham off at first. Seeing he was too late, he took no chances of a wild throw, and did not throw at all.
“Oh, wow! wow!” roared the crowd. “All to pieces! How easy! how easy!”
Hodge was looking black as a thundercloud. The game was not pleasing him at all. Was it possible Frank has lost some of his skill?
Arata, a stocky young Indian, advanced to the plate. He showed his teeth to Merry, who gave him a pretty one on the outside corner.
Arata smashed it hard, driving it on a line over Frank’s head.
Like a flash Merriwell shot into the air and pulled down the ball with one hand. Like a flash he whirled round and threw to Rattleton.