Then came Merriwell again.
“Don’t let this chap get another hit off you, Bob,” implored Cronin.
“No danger of it,” said the pitcher.
But on the second ball delivered Frank reached far over the outside corner of the plate and connected with the ball, cracking out a hot single that permitted Badger to speed round to third.
Merry took second on the throw to catch Badger at third.
The look on the face of Bob Wolfers was murderous. He stood and glared at Frank, who smiled sweetly in return.
“You’re the luckiest fellow alive!” said the Elkton twirler. “I saw you shut your eyes when you struck at that ball.”
“You’re so easy that I can hit your pitching with my eyes closed,” retorted Merriwell.
Imagine the feelings of Spud Bailey. He was strutting now in the midst of the village boys, not a whit intimidated by threats of a “walloping” after the game.
“I told you fellers how it would be before der game began,” he said, throwing out his chest, with his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “It couldn’t help bein’ dat way. Dey’re bangin’ der eye outer Wolfers, but I don’t see ’em hitting Frank Merriwell any.”