CHAPTER XXIX.
HITTING ’EM SOME.
“Pwhat’s this?” cried Barney Mulloy, in amazement. “It’s a choild ye put agin’ us? It’s no joke, ye’ll foind it.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” laughed Frank. “When you’ve batted him out of the box, I’ll hand you up a few twisters.”
“Thin ye’ll have a chance roight away,” returned the Irish youth confidently.
There was a hush after the cheering, and the game was about to begin.
“Battery for the Merries, Merriwell and Hodge,” announced the umpire.
There was a volley of applause, and Dick Merriwell toed the slab. He looked slender and out of place there, his face pale and his dark eyes gleaming, while there was a set expression about his somewhat wilful mouth. Up among the clustered Yale men there was a buzz of comment.
“It’s a shame to drive such a gentle lamb to the slaughter!” said one.