“I know a man dat’s bet two hundrud dollars ter one hundred dat the Merriwells will win.”
“He’s a bigger fool dan you are! W’y didn’t he go burn his money. He’d had more fun wid it.”
But Spud was unmoved.
“You wait,” he muttered. “You’ll see.”
Never in their careers had the members of Merriwell’s team been more determined to win, if possible. All levity was cut out of the early part of the game. They went at it seriously, earnestly, with heart and soul.
Ready cast aside his flippancy and did his level best to start things off with a hit. The best he could do was to drive a grounder into the hands of Cronin, who whistled it across to Cross for an easy out.
Wolfers continued to grin, although he had anticipated, beginning by showing his ability to strike a man out when he desired.
Morgan fouled several times, finally striking out on a “spit ball,” which took a wonderfully sharp jump to one side as he swung, nearly getting away from Sprowl.
“That’s the kind, Bob, old socks!” cried the catcher. “They never can hit those.”
Badger popped a little one into the air, and the first three batters to face the wonder from Wisconsin were his victims.