Merry was testing himself. Kitson, Cronin, and Sparks were all batters of different styles. To mow them down in succession would be a severe test for any pitcher.
This, however, was what Frank did. Sparks finally succumbed, declining at the finish to strike at a high straight one, and growling because the umpire called it a strike, although it was not above his shoulder.
Spud Bailey was overjoyed.
“Now, now, now!” he cried. “I guess you fellers begin ter see I ain’t such a fool!”
“Oh, he can’t keep dat up,” sneered Freckles. “He’ll go all ter pieces arter one or two innin’s.”
“Bet you anyt’ing he won’t!” flung back Spud. “You ain’t posted about him. He’s der greates’ pitcher in der business. I tole yer so, but you didn’t take no stock in it.”
“I don’t take no stock in it now.”
“You will.”
“Git out!”
“You will,” persisted Spud.