Then came the hit of the day.
Merriwell was the man. Each time he had faced Wolfers there was “something doing.” This time Wolfers tried harder than ever to strike him out; but Frank slammed the ball against the centre-field fence for three bags, sending Badger home with the first run of the game.
Spud Bailey nearly died of delight.
“I knowed it!” he whooped. “Wot d’yer t’ink of him now, Freck?”
“He’s a lucky hitter,” said Freckles.
But the sympathy of several small boys had turned to the visitors. They admired Bart Hodge for standing up for his rights.
“G’wan, Freck!” they cried. “He’s a corkin’ player, an’ you know it.”
“I hope them fellers win,” said a tall, thin boy. “Dey’re all right.”
“They’ll win; don’t worry about that,” assured Spud.
Ben Raybold and Seymour Whittaker had found seats together after the excitement caused when Hodge hit Sprowl.