“Thank you,” said Merry.
“No thanks needed. Only an amateur would put a straight one over under such circumstances. It’s always impossible to tell what a greenhorn will do.”
Wolfers was sore. He did not like to acknowledge that he had been outwitted, although such was the case.
“Go sit down, Bob,” laughed Kitson, as he walked out to strike. “You missed. Let it go at that.”
Wolfers retired to the bench, feeling very sore.
Frank knew Kitson was reckoned as a clever base getter, for which reason he had been placed at the head of the list. Merry felt that it would be best to force the man to hit, if possible, and this he tried to do.
Now, however, all at once, he had lost control. The batter saw this and waited. As a result, he walked.
“It’s all to the good!” yelled Rush, as he capered on the coaching line. “Get away off! Take a lead! Divorce yourselves from those sacks! Don’t force Chuck, Kit. Remember he’s ahead of you. How easy to win a game like this! It’s a cinch! Move off, you snails! Get a long lead! Let him throw the ball. He’ll throw it wild in a minute. He hasn’t any control. He’s off his feed to-day.”
The spectators began to “root,” hoping to rattle Frank.
Merry took his time. He knew he was in poor condition, yet he was fighting to win the game, if such a thing could be done. For once in his life, he lacked confidence; but this was caused by his lame ankle, which had seriously interfered with his control.