“Yes.”
“Well, I understand he tried to get Merriwell to drop Mason off last night, but Merry wouldn’t hear of it. That’s what ails Hodge to-day.”
“Well, it looks bad for us now.”
Then they fell to watching the playing, for Frank was in the box, ready to resume, and Princeton was booming her cry over the field.
Frank settled down to business now. He had talked with Bart. Hodge was mad. His face was flushed and his teeth set. The shoots came over the plate in bewildering variety, but Bart froze to them all and held them.
One, two, three strikes were called on the next batter, and down he went.
The next man lifted a little fly, which Merry took himself.
“Merriwell is pitching now!” said the Yale spectators. “Just watch him!”
The ball did not look larger than a marble when it left Frank’s hand and went whistling over the corners of the plate. Princeton was still cheering, but something told every witness that the orange and black would score no more that day.
One strike!