Packard saw there was a chance for Hans to reach second, and so he sent him along. Never in all his life had the Dutch youth run faster, and the sight was a most ludicrous one.
Swiftwing overtook the ball and turned to throw it to second. He was a good thrower, and he lined it straight into the waiting hands of Rattleton.
Just before reaching second Hans seemed to trip over his own feet, and down he went, turning over and over on the ground, like a ball. When he stopped he was sitting on second base, and he had reached it in time to be safe.
How the crowd shouted.
“Dunnerwurst’s usual luck!” laughed Frank Merriwell. “He can blunder into more things like that than any fellow I ever saw play baseball.”
Dick Merriwell had not stopped laughing, for the sight of Hans running like a frightened duck and turning over and over to sit up on the bag was so comical the boy found it impossible not to be amused.
“Well,” said the man with the dog, “that settles it! When a fat slob like that can make a two-bagger off Merriwell’s brother, everybody can hit him. Hey, Nero?”
“Bow-wow!” barked the dog.
Dade Morgan was well satisfied, and he wore his sweetest smile when he walked out to the plate. He assumed an easy batting position, swinging handsomely at the first one pitched, but failing to hit it.