Hodge got up and advanced to the plate, his face looking drawn and grim. Nesbitt laughed at him.
“Where will you have ’em?” he inquired. “Just name the place, and I’ll put ’em right there.”
“Then put them over!” exclaimed Bart. “That’s all I ask.”
“Here you go!”
The pitcher gave Hodge a drop, and Bart fouled it. Then followed a rise, which Hodge did not touch, and a strike was called.
“How easy, how easy!” cried the players.
Spectators were rising and preparing to leave the field. Nesbitt put over another bender, and Bart missed that. It was the second strike.
At this moment a strangely thrilling sound pealed across the field. It was a wild, weird cry, and all eyes were turned toward its source, which proved to be an old Indian who had just come out through a gate, accompanied by a youth in the uniform of Merriwell’s players.
Nesbitt had swung his arm to deliver the ball when that cry sounded. He seemed to hesitate the least bit, and then he sent the sphere in.