Johnson was in position to strike.
“Look out fo’ me, ma-a-an,” he grinned. “Dis time I puts it ober de fence. Allus does it once in a game.”
He tried hard—too hard, in fact. Like Moran, he fell an easy victim to Merriwell’s arts.
Frank was now pitching in his best form, having thrown off all attempt at deception.
Madison swore he would get a hit. He realized that his reputation as a heavy batter had suffered that day.
The crowd yelled and hooted at Frank, seeking to rattle him, but his face was perfectly grave and he seemed deaf to the uproar. In the stand he saw a veiled woman, who sat silent and rigid, her gloved hands clasped. He knew she was watching him, her heart heavy with despair, for it seemed that the locals had won.
At the beginning of the game Merry had resolved not to let Madison get a hit. Now, as the fellow came up for the last time, Frank pitched with bewildering speed, his curves being sharp and baffling.
Although every ball pitched was a strike, Starbright had confidence in Merry and declared two, at which the batter did not offer, to be “balls.”
Then Merry wound up with his surprising slow ball, which seemed to hang in the air, and Madison struck too soon.
“You’re out!” cried Starbright.