“Thank you for the advice,” smiled Merry. “If I throw it over the grand stand I may decide to follow your kind suggestion.”
But he kept on wetting the ball.
Crackson went after the second one pitched, but he was deceived like the others, missing it cleanly.
“Come! come!” cried a man on the bleachers. “I thought you fellows could hit a little. You don’t seem to amount to shucks when you get up against a real pitcher.”
Hurley was frowning and watching Merriwell’s movements. He also tried to follow the course of the ball after it left Frank’s hand.
Merry made another wild pitch, and the ball got past Hodge. This did no damage, however, as there was no one on the bases.
Among the spectators Hobe Manton brightened up a little.
“It will come in time,” he said. “Merriwell can’t keep it up. He’s losing control now. What if the Outcasts had happened to have a man on third then? Why, he would have cantered home easily.”
“But if they don’t do better they’ll never get a man on first,” said Frost, with an icy sneer.
“They’ll get one there pretty soon,” nodded Manton.