Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Support; Or, A Triple Play - Burt L. Standish - Страница 3

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It was the seventh inning, Frank Merriwell’s team had not scored, while the Omaha Stars, who had been putting up a hard game against the boys from the East, had made two runs, one in the first inning and one in the fifth.

Frank had been pitching a fine game, although his wrist, sprained some time before, had not permitted him to use the double-shoot. In the seventh inning, with the very first ball he pitched, he gave his wrist a twist that sent a shooting pain all the way to his shoulder.

The ball went wide of the plate, and the batter did not strike at it. When Bart Hodge returned the ball, he knew something had happened, by the expression on Frank’s face. Merry caught the ball with his left hand and stood still, holding it.

“Play ball!” roared the excited crowd. “Make him pitch!”

Still Frank seemed in no hurry. He took the ball in his hand, while Bart gave the signal for a drop. Merry shook his head, and Bart signed for an out. Again Frank shook his head, assuming a position that told the entire team he intended to use a high, straight ball. But he did not pitch.

Dorrity, the captain and first-baseman of the Stars, demanded of the umpire that Merriwell be compelled to deliver the ball.

“Pitch the ball!” roared the crowd.

Even that did not seem to incite Frank to put it over.

“Two balls!” called the umpire, although Frank had not again delivered the sphere to the bat.

“Ha!” shouted the crowd. “That’s the stuff!”

The second ball had been called on Merry as a penalty for delaying the game for no good reason.

A grim look came into the face of the greatest pitcher ever graduated from Yale. He did not kick at the decision of the umpire, nor did he show great haste in pitching after this.

“Call another!” cried several of the spectators. “He’s in a hole, and he knows it!”

Frank settled himself firmly on the ground, just as Bart was ready to start down to ask what was the matter. Then he sent over a high, straight one that would have been a ball had the batter let it alone.

But the batter hit it. The man with the stick happened to be Hanson, the heavy hitter of the Stars, and he tapped the ball a terrible crack.

Away sailed the sphere, going out on a line over the infield, and Hanson’s legs took him flying down to first.

Both Swiftwing and Gamp went after the ball, but Frank saw at once that neither of them could catch it.

Swiftwing was a great runner, and he sped to cut the ball off after it struck the ground.

Hanson crossed first and tore along to second, urged by the roaring crowd.

Bart Hodge groaned as he saw the ball strike the ground and go bounding away into left field, with Swiftwing tearing after it.

“Home run! home run!” yelled the spectators, while one of the home team raced down to third, to be on hand there and send Hanson home as he came along.

Away out in the far extreme of left field Swiftwing finally ran down the ball. But Hanson was almost to third, and the spectators in the grand stand and on the bleachers were certain he could reach home before the ball could be sent in.

“Come home! come home!” they screamed.

Hanson crossed third, and the coacher sent him right along.

In the meantime Swiftwing had picked up the ball and given it a quick snap to Gamp, the long New Hampshire youth, who was within two rods of him. Joe turned with the ball in his hand, and saw Hanson crossing third.

Then Joe set his teeth and swung back the hand that held the ball. The crowd expected he would throw to Rattleton, on second. At first it seemed that he had thrown to second, but had failed to get the range correctly.

Then it was seen that Gamp had tried the seemingly impossible task of throwing to the plate to cut the runner off.

“Run, Hanson—run!” shouted the spectators.

Hanson was doing his best to beat the ball to the plate, but that ball came on with amazing speed. It was almost a “line throw” from the far outfield, and the crowd was amazed by the manner in which the ball hung up in the air instead of dropping to the ground. It showed what wonderful force had been put into the throw.

Hodge settled himself in position to take the ball, and suddenly, as Hanson neared the plate, the coachers shrieked for him to slide.

Hanson slid headlong, but Bart caught the ball and “bored” it into his back, actually pinning him to the ground while his hand was yet a foot from the plate. He tried to squirm forward and reach the plate, but the voice of the umpire called:

“Out!”

A hush fell on the witnesses of this amazing piece of work. Only a moment before they had been roaring loudly, but, of a sudden, they were silent. Then somebody with a hoarse voice roared:

“Well, what do you think of that for a throw! Talk about a wing—that fellow’s got it!”

Somebody clapped his hands, and a general volley of applause followed.

Hanson was filled with chagrin, for he had felt confident of making a home run. He turned and quarreled with the coacher who sent him home from third, and would not believe the ball had been thrown all the distance from the farthest outfield to the plate.

Jack, the second-baseman of the Stars, now took his place to strike.

Merriwell had been rubbing his wrist as he walked down into the box, after backing Hodge up on the catch of Gamp’s throw, and the expression on his face, had any one studied it, seemed to indicate a troubled mind.

“If Dick were here,” he muttered, thinking of his young brother, “we’d be all right.”

But Dick Merriwell was not there, having been left behind in Wyoming, to remain at the side of Old Joe Crowfoot, who had been shot and severely wounded.

Despite his youth, Frank’s brother had shown himself a perfect little wizard as a pitcher, being able to hold down heavy hitters. Just now he would be handy to step into the box in Frank’s place, but he was far away.

And there was no other pitcher on the team able to hold down the heavy hitters of the Stars. So Frank set his teeth and resolved to pitch the game through to the best of his ability.

Jack was a good hitter, but, up to this time, he had been unable to touch Merriwell for a safe one. Frank tried a high one, which the latter let pass. An out followed, and another ball was called.

Then Merry tried a drop, but again he felt that shooting pain, and the ball went wide.

Now Frank was forced to put the ball over, in order to prevent the batter from walking to first. He used speed, and kept it shoulder high, with a slight in shoot.

Jack stepped forward and met the ball fairly, driving it out on a line.

Carson jumped for the ball, touched it with his fingers, but did not stop it. Jack reached first and started for second, but Rattleton got the ball, and Carson covered second in time to drive the runner back to first.

Maloney, the next hitter, was tall, red-headed, and freckle-faced. He rapped the very first ball that Frank pitched, sending it down to Rattleton so hotly that Harry fumbled, and the hitter was able to reach first ahead of the throw.

“Everybody hits!” cried Dorrity, who was near third. “Get against it, Corrigan, old man! Drive it out hard!”

Corrigan looked confident, but Frank caused him to fan at the first ball delivered. Then Merry tried to work the corners, but found himself rather wild, and three balls were called.

“Now he’s got to put ’em over!” cried Dorrity. “Wait it out!”

Frank took a chance and sent a straight one over.

Corrigan did not wait, but nailed the ball hard. It went to Ready with the speed of a bullet. Ready put his body in front of the ball, which took a nasty bound and struck him fairly between the eyes, knocking him over.

Ready was dazed, and by the time he had recovered and got the ball, Jack was on third and Maloney on second. Ready caught up the ball and swung his arm to throw to first.

Frank saw that the throw would be useless, as Corrigan was already too near the bag, and he shouted for Ready to hold the ball.

Ready could not stop the swing of his arm, but he held on to the ball long enough to throw it down at his feet, and it bounded merrily away.

“Score!” yelled a coacher, and Jack made a jump off third to go home.

The spectators rose up and whooped madly once more.

Frank made a leap and got in front of the ball, which he succeeded in stopping. Fortunately for him, Jack saw this soon enough to dive back to third.

Merry recovered and drew back his hand to throw to third, but instantly decided that it would be useless, knowing that a team often goes to pieces and loses a game in a single inning by getting to throwing the ball round in a hasty and reckless manner, so he held the sphere.

But the bases were full and but one man was out. Something told Frank that he was in a bad box. Still, he set his teeth and resolved to “pull out” if it were possible.

The coachers were talking from both sides of the diamond, and the excited crowd had not stopped its roaring.

Hodge was pale, and there was a fierce gleam in his eyes.

“Now we’ll hold ’em! Now we’ll hold ’em!” cried Rattleton, from second.

“Talk about your stars!” exclaimed Ready. “I saw a few that time!”

“They won’t get another hit, Merry,” assured Carson, who was playing short.

“Put ’em right over,” advised Browning.

“All a dud-dud-dinged accident!” asserted Gamp, from distant center garden.

Swiftwing and Carker were the only silent ones behind Merry, for even Hodge grimly asserted that it was all right.

Then Merriwell resolved to use the double-shoot, if it broke his wrist. Bart called for an out curve as Dorrity stepped up to the plate; but Merry assumed a position that told everybody on the team he meant to use the famous reverse curve, which he alone could command and control.

Bart knew Merry was desperate, for Frank had told him he would not resort to that extreme in the game.

Dorrity was cool enough, but the first ball seemed just what he desired, and he bit at it. The reverse curve fooled him nicely, and he did not touch the ball.

“One strike!” declared the umpire.

Bart smiled grimly and nodded for another. Frank used exactly the same sort of a curve, and again Dorrity went after it and failed to connect.

“Why, it’s easy! it’s easy!” said Bart.

“A perfect snap,” assured Carson.

“Couldn’t hit one of them in fourteen million years,” said Ready.

“He’ll think he’s got the jam-jims—I mean the jim-jams,” came from Rattleton.

“Please let him hit it,” urged Browning. “I want another put-out in this inning. He can’t hit it out of the diamond.”

But Merry did not let up in the least. The very next one was a speed ball, but Frank caused the curves to reverse the other way, and Dorrity let it pass.

“Batter is out!” announced the umpire.

Dorrity threw down his bat and started into the diamond, yelling:

“What’s that? That ball didn’t come within a foot of the plate!”

“Sit down!” commanded the umpire grimly.

Dorrity insisted on kicking, and the umpire warned him again in a manner that meant business.

“Robbery!” muttered the captain of the Stars, as he walked back to the bench.

Two were out, and Batch, the pitcher of the home team, was the next hitter. It happened that Merry had discovered Batch’s weak point, and he did not fear him, for which reason he did not again use the double-shoot in that inning.

A sharp drop caught Batch the first time. Then followed one close to the batter’s hands, and he hit it on the handle of the bat. The ball rolled out to Frank, who threw Batch out at first while Jack was racing home.

The home team had not scored in that inning, but they were still two ahead of the visitors, who had failed to make a single tally.

Hodge met Frank as he came in.

“How is the wrist?” asked Bart anxiously.

“Bad,” confessed Merry; “but don’t you say a word about it.”

“What made you use the double?”

“Had to do something to get out of that hole.”

“But——”

“It’s all right. We’re going to win this game—if we can.”

“It will take some scores to do it, and the weak end comes up this time. We’ve got only one more chance after this.”

Swiftwing was the first batter. As a rule, the Indian hit well, but had not secured a safe one thus far in the game. The former Carlisle man now seized a bat and advanced to the plate, his manner betraying determination to do something. Frank spoke to him, saying:

“Don’t try to kill the ball, John. A single is good enough, if you can’t get a bag on balls. But wait—wait.”

Merry had found the Indian a poor waiter, and this case was no exception. John was so eager to get a hit that he fell an easy victim to the artifices of Batch, finally popping up a little fly, which was taken by the third-baseman of the Stars.

Rattleton’s heart was in his boots when he advanced to the plate, but he pretended to brace up. Batch worked the corners, and Harry bit at two bad ones. Then, in sheer despair, Rattleton slashed at a high one that was over his head, and hit it!

The ball was driven on a line between short and second, and Harry raced down to first. If he had been contented with that, all would have been well; but he tried to stretch a single into a two-bagger, and O’Grady, the left-fielder, who had secured the ball, threw to second.

When it was too late, Harry saw he could not reach second, and he tried to turn back. Then he was caught between bases.

“That’s what loses the game!” groaned Hodge, as he saw the opposing players get on the base-line to run Rattleton down.

Rattleton did his best to escape, while the players skilfully forced him back toward first, and then pinned him so that he could not dodge them. He was tagged with the ball, and the second man was out.

The crowd was delighted. They had expected a hot game, and they were getting their money’s worth.

Frank’s team had been well advertised in Omaha, the papers telling of its successful career through the Rocky Mountain region. Thus far not a single defeat had been chalked against the Merries; but now it began to seem that the long string of victories would be broken.

“La! la!” sighed Jack Ready. “How foolish it is for a man to try to do more than he is capable of accomplishing!”

Then he pretended to wipe a tear from his eye as Rattleton, looking very cheap and disgusted, came in to the bench.

“Somebody please kick me!” mumbled Harry.

“With great satisfaction!” exclaimed Jack, and he proceeded to do so.

“Thanks!” murmured Rattleton, as he sat down.

Frank said nothing to Harry, for he knew the unlucky chap felt bad enough about what he had done, and Merry had learned by experience that it did little good with a young team to “call down” the players or “chew the rag” with them on the field.

Old stagers will take a call-down, but it takes the spirit out of youngsters, sometimes making them sullen and sulky. A young ball-player needs encouragement at all times, criticism often, but public call-downs never. The captain or manager who is continually yelling at his players on the field and telling them how bad they are doing, causes them to lose five games where he drives them to win one.

Carker was the next man up, and Frank admonished him to wait for the good ones. Greg was beaten already, and his appearance showed it. Batch was full of confidence, and he put the balls right over.

Some batters have a faculty of working a pitcher, often getting first base on balls; but the fellow who does this is usually a good hitter, or he stands up to the plate, as if he was anxious to “line it out.” When a pitcher is satisfied that the batter is longing to hit he gets wary and declines to put the ball over. On the other hand, let the pitcher suspect the batter is trying to get a base on balls, and he does his best to “cut the plate.”

The first two balls pitched were strikes, yet Carker swung at neither of them.

“It’s all off!” growled Hodge. “He’s the third victim.”

Then Batch sent in a wide one, and, knowing there were two strikes on him, Greg reached for it.

Somehow Carker caught that ball on the end of his bat and sent it skipping down past the first-baseman, who made an ineffectual effort to block it.

“Run!” yelled Ready, suddenly rousing up. “Dig, you duffer! It’s a hit!”

Carker had been amazed by his own success, but he came out of his “trance” in a moment and hustled down to first. Gamp was there, and he made Carker stick to the bag.

Merriwell grasped a bat and stepped up to the plate. Batch was afraid of Merry, for he knew Frank was a good hitter, and he started in to try to “pull” the batter.

Apparently Frank was ready and anxious to “lace” the first good one, but his judgment seemed good, as he let the first two pass, and both were called balls.

Batch was holding Carker close to first. As Hanson, the catcher of the Stars, was a good thrower, there seemed little chance for Greg to steal second.

The third ball was pretty high, and Merry took a chance on it by failing to swing. A strike was called. Frank simply shook his head, thus expressing his belief that the decision was not correct.

The next ball was a drop, and it seemed too low, so Merry let that pass. Another ball was called.

“Got him!” chirped Ready. “Oh, ye Grecian gods! smile upon us now. Be quiet, my good people, and watch us turn the trick. We are due to do it.”

Batch settled himself for business, and whistled a speedy one to go straight over the rubber. It didn’t get over, however, for Frank met it “on the nose.”