Then Frank fooled him handsomely with a swift rise, a drop and a “dope ball.” Wolfers struck at them all. He fancied the dope was coming straight over, but the ball seemed to pause and hang in the air, as if something pulled it back. This caused the batter to strike too soon.
“Str-r-r-rike—kah three! You’re out!”
The man from Wisconsin turned crimson with anger and mortification.
“Oh, I presume you think you’re a great gun!” he snapped at Frank.
“Not at all,” retorted Merry. “It’s no trick to strike you out.”
This infuriated Wolfers.
“I don’t think it’s much of a trick to strike you out,” he flung back.
“It’s dead easy for a good pitcher to do it,” laughed Merriwell.
“Oh, you fresh duck!” muttered Wolfers, as he walked to the bench. “Just you wait! I’ll give you your medicine.”
His appearance of good nature had vanished like fog before a hot sun. He was now consumed with rage and a desire to outdo Frank in some manner.