Every ball hurt Bart’s hand, but he held them all and showed no sign of pain.
Jones was mad and surprised, which made him easy for the third double-shoot, and he, like the two before him, struck out.
Not one of the three men had even fouled the ball.
“Well, well!” roared a spectator. “It seems that you’ve got a pitcher there, after all!”
“Thanks, most astute sir,” chirped Ready, doffing his cap and bowing. “He hasn’t begun to pitch yet. He’s just getting warmed up.”
CHAPTER XXX.
ONE TO NOTHING.
It was the beginning of the ninth inning, and neither side had scored. Never before had there been such an exciting game in the city of Denver. The crowd was throbbing, and Merriwell’s team had won a host of friends by its clever work. Since the second inning, however, Frank had given his men no chance to show what they could do, for he had struck out man after man, just as fast as they came up. Never in all his life had he been in better form, and his work was something to amaze his most intimate friends.
Bart Hodge, with his arm paining him from the tip of his fingers to the shoulder, looked very well satisfied.
Dick Merriwell was wild with delight and admiration. He heard the crowd wondering at the work of Frank and cheering at it, and it warmed his heart toward the brother he had once thought he hated.
“Oh, Joe!” he panted, “did you ever see anything like it?”