“In your old form, Merry,” said Hodge. “Why, you can make the ball cut any kind of quirks to-day. The double is right at your command.”
Bart’s anger had passed, and his face wore a pleasant look that was almost a smile.
“The same old dim-jandy!” spluttered Harry Rattleton, who had trotted in at Merry’s side. “Why, you can spock the knots—I mean you can knock the spots off any professional in the country!”
“Tell me about that when I’ve grown too old to pitch any more,” smiled Merry. “I’ll enjoy hearing about it then.”
Dick Merriwell flew past them toward the bench, turning cart-wheels as he went. He wound up with a handspring and a burst of wild laughter that attracted general attention.
On the bench of the home players Squinty Jim was saying to the fellow in the uniform of the Athletic players:
“Dat kid is der one, Bud, an’ I wants ye ter break his ribs der fust punch. Dat’ll git me even wid him.”
“Oh, go on an’ lick him yerself!” returned the other fellow. “I’d be ’shamed ter hit a babby like dat.”
“Say, he ain’t no babby, Bud; he’s a holy terror.”
“Yer ain’t goin’ ter tell me ag’in dat he done yer widout help?”