“Vrankie, you vos a pird!” said Hans Dunnerwurst, as he waddled in to the bench. “I nefer expectorated you couldt pitch a pall by your lame ankle much; but you dooded der trick mit a greadt deal of satisfactoriness. Yah!”
“I didn’t do it, Hans,” confessed Merry. “It was a case of good luck.”
“Don’d let me toldt you dot!” exploded the Dutchman. “You don’d pelief me!”
Frank had limped to the bench.
“How is the ankle?” anxiously asked Morgan.
“Oh, I think I’ll get through another inning with it.”
“I’m sorry I was not able to stay in; but you see how much better you did.”
“Which was luck, just as I told Hans.”
“I can’t see it that way. You made Cross roll that weak one to you.”
“Perhaps it looked that way,” said Merriwell; “but I want to whisper in your ear that I thought all the time that he was likely to lift out a two-bagger or something of the sort.”