“They can’t hit Merriwell.”
“They won’t have to if he keeps on growing wild. They’ll all walk.”
But the next ball pitched looked good to Swatt, and again he swung at it.
He missed.
“Well, wouldn’t that bump you violently!” cried Wiley, an expression of pain on his swarthy face. “Wait till I trip out there and put the marble over the fence. Then the gaping multitude will rise up and call me blessed.”
Swatt had a puzzled look on his heavy face. Like those who had batted before him, he could not understand why he had failed so completely, although he realized that the ball had taken some kind of a freakish shoot.
“Make connections there!” yelled Wiley. “What ails you? Have you been smoking dope? Hit it anywhere and pray as you run. Don’t be trying any fancy stunts at placing the ball. I know that old tar in the box, and he can throw everything from a high ball to a fish ball. You won’t make a record trying to place your hits.”
Swatt gave Wiley a look. Then he gripped his bat and waited.
Again the ball delivered by Frank looked good to him, and again he struck at it.
Again he missed.