“Oh, say, Merry!” exclaimed Capt. Hardy, who was sitting on the bench at Frank’s side; “this is going to be too much of a farce.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” was Frank’s careless retort. “You can’t tell about that yet. You fellows may hold us fairly good play, so that there will be some interest in the game. Don’t get discouraged as soon as this.”
“Come off! You know what I mean. That gang of yours hasn’t a show against us.”
“Really! And you did not score the first time at bat! Your crust surprises me, old man.”
“We didn’t score because that jay from New Hampshire caught a ball by accident, and you struck out the next two men. You can’t keep that up.”
“I don’t know about that, either.”
“Say, you make me tired!” came warmly from the captain’s lips, for he was aroused. “If you keep on, I’ll go in and take a hand myself.”
“Do it! It will be jolly sport to strike you out, captain.”
“Don’t get the swelled head, Merriwell! Don’t think you can strike everybody out! That is what spoils a good pitcher.”
“You are right, Hardy,” nodded Frank, seriously. “The pitcher who is forever trying to strike out every batter who faces him soon kills himself. It is the man who holds them down to small hits who makes the success.”