“And you still have the idea that you can play ball?” said Merry. “Why, Hans, you know better!”
“Vait!” squawked the Dutch lad. “Vait till I show you vot I can dood! You vill peen so surbrised dot your eyes vill sdick oudt uf mine headt.”
“You always did have a barrel of luck,” said Merry, “but luck will not win this game.”
“The Lord be with us!” droned Dismal Jones, his face as long as ever. “How are you, Merriwell?”
“Gol-darn my squash!” cried Ephraim Gallup, as he came straddling up. “I’m glad I’m not to hum on the farm, b’gosh!”
Starbright was on hand to grasp Merry’s hand in both his own broad palms, his blue eyes beaming. Mason came round quietly, and Oliver Packard made no demonstration.
“Play ball!” called the voice of the umpire.
Out onto the field trotted Merriwell’s team.
And, to the astonishment of everybody, Frank Merriwell did not go into the pitcher’s box.
He sent Dick in!