“Well, by gum! what a question?” grinned the strange pitcher. “How kin I be?”
“But you are!” asserted the captain of the St. Paul team positively. “You’re no Rube!”
“A-haw! a-haw! a-haw!” laughed the fellow, slapping his thigh and seeming greatly amused.
But the man in the grand stand cried again:
“He is Frank Merriwell, and those chaps on the bleachers who cheered for him and sang are members of his baseball-team.”
Up rose an apple-cheeked chap in the midst of the group of young athletes on the bleachers. He looked around with a radiant smile, flirted one hand with a peculiar gesture that seemed to command silence, and then clearly cried:
“Ladies and gentlemen—and others: The Solomonlike gentleman in the grand stand has made it impossible to longer maintain the deception, and so we are forced to admit that his eagle eye has penetrated the disguise of our esteemed and honored captain. Yonder Rube, with hayseed in his hair is in truth the only and original Frank Merriwell, who has in his sleeve a few kinks and twists he has not ventured to give the ball to-day. We, ladies and gentlemen, are his humble followers, and we are modest enough to confess that we regard him as the greatest pitcher who ever came down the pike. Yea, verily, even so! The choir will now chant an anthem.”
Then he sat down and the young men on the bleachers loudly sang:
“All hail to the chief who strikes out the batter,
He puts the ball over the four-cornered platter;