Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Support; Or, A Triple Play - Burt L. Standish - Страница 4

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At the crack of the bat, as it seemed, Merry started to run. The ball went out on a line toward right field, and Carker dashed for second. The right-fielder made a jump to get in front of the ball, but it went past him and struck the ground ten feet beyond.

Away into right field bounded the ball, while Carker and Merry tore round the bases. As Carker approached third, he saw Carson wildly motioning for him to go home.

Greg did not look round, but, had he done so, he would have seen Merry coming after him with the speed of the wind. Frank was overhauling Greg in a most amazing manner.

Under ordinary circumstances, the hit into right field would have been a fair three-bagger; but Merry covered ground so fast that Carson took a chance in sending him home.

As Carker approached the plate, Frank Merriwell was not twenty feet behind him. The fielder had secured the ball and thrown it to the first-baseman, who ran out to take it.

Then the baseman whirled and lined the ball to the plate.

Carker did not slide, but he barely went over the plate ahead of the ball. Frank, however, threw himself forward in a long headlong slide.

Hanson took the ball and touched Merry, but Frank was lying with his hand on the plate.

“Safe!” declared the umpire.

Frank had stretched a three-bagger into a home run, and the score was tied.

Of a sudden, a great change had come over the game.

“It’s all over, boys!” laughed Ready. “We can’t help winning now! It’s another scalp for us!”

“That’s Frank Merriwell!” cried an excited boy on the bleachers. “You can’t beat him! The whole world can’t beat him!”

Batch was sore. A short time before he had been smiling, but now there was no smile on his face. He looked serious enough as Ready came up. Jack was determined to “keep the ball rolling,” and he got a nice hit off the second ball pitched.

Among the spectators were two men who were watching the game with deep interest. One man was stout and red-faced, with a stubby mustache, while the other was slender and dark, wearing a suit of blue. The stout man choked and gurgled when the umpire declared Merry safe at the plate.

“Rotten!” he snarled. “He was out by a foot!”

“I don’t think so, Hazen,” said the other man.

“Why, what ails you?” gurgled the portly man. “Do you want to see us lose this game, Wescott?”

“Not much,” answered Wescott. “It means something to me. I have over two hundred dollars bet on the Stars.”

“Two hundred!” exploded Hazen. “I have almost a thousand! I spent half of last night hunting bets, and I took everything I could get at any odds.”

“Well,” said the man in blue, “I’m afraid we’re in a bad box. This fellow Merriwell is lucky. He has a way of winning at anything and everything.”

“But those kids can’t beat our boys!”

“They may. The score is tied.”

“How in blazes can you take it so easy?”

“What’s the use to fret? It won’t win the game.”

“Fret! fret! If you had staked as much as I have, you’d not be so cool.”

“You can afford to lose a thousand as well as I can two hundred. You made three thousand on the Ryan-Cummings fight.”

“That was a sure thing. I was tipped off the way that mill was going.”

“And you thought this a sure thing to-day?”

“Yes. Why not? Those chaps are a lot of boys. The Stars are veterans.”

“But that lot of boys have the best man for a captain who stands in shoe-leather to-day. He makes them win games—when he can’t win them alone.”

“He can’t make them win all the time.”

“He does. He hasn’t been pitching at his usual standard to-day. He had to open up in the last inning, and he will in the next. See if he doesn’t shut the Stars out.”

Carson was in position to strike. Batch tried all the tricks he knew, but Berlin waited till three balls had been called.

Then a sign passed between Jack and Berlin for the former to go down on the next ball pitched.

The ball was right over, and Carson swung at it, missing intentionally. At the same time he seemed to lose his footing and fall back against the catcher. The trick was done so well that Carson’s own friends did not know it was intentional, and he bothered the catcher long enough for Ready to reach second safely ahead of the throw to catch him.

Carson did not lose his head, but he was patient, which resulted in a base on balls.

Bart Hodge advanced to the plate.

“It’s all over!” cried Ready, as he danced about close to second. “He’ll hit it a mile!”

Batch caught Bart on a drop at the very start, Hodge missing the ball by several inches.

“Get under it!” called Ready. “If you let him strike you out, I’ll drop dead right here.”

The next one was a ball, but Bart hit the third one, making a clean single, on which Ready scored from second. Merriwell’s team had the lead for the first time during the game.

“You’ve lost your money, Hazen,” said Wescott.

But Hazen had suddenly started from the bleachers, jumped over the rail, and was moving toward the bench occupied by the visitors.

“What the dickens is he up to?” muttered Wescott, in surprise.

Frank felt a hand touch his arm, and, looking round, found the red-faced man at his elbow.

“Fifty dollars if you let them hit you in the next inning!” breathed Hazen huskily. “Throw the game and the money is yours!”

Merry felt his face turn red.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Will you do it?” panted Hazen.

“Where is an officer?” demanded Frank. “I want this man put out.”

“A hundred dollars!” came from the gambler.

“Get out!” Frank sternly commanded. “You can’t buy me!”

“Two hundred!” bid Hazen. “Don’t be a fool! I am good for it! Here! Shake hands with me!”

He suddenly grasped Frank’s hand, into which he pressed something. When Merry looked, he was astonished to see the man had left a wad of bills in his hand.

Instantly Frank flung the money in the man’s face, speaking in a low, hard tone:

“You’ve made a big mistake! Take your dirty money and get out of this lively!”

Hazen’s face became redder than ever. Seeing he was exposed, he immediately said:

“I want you to stand by your word! You said you’d sell the game for two hundred dollars if you got ahead; now you can’t back out, for I hold you to the agreement.”

Merry saw through the trick, and he turned pale, while a strange laugh broke from his lips.

“You’re a big bluffer, but I don’t think you’ll fool anybody. It will take more than two hundred dollars to buy me.”

The man had picked up his money.

“Then you’re a liar!” he said; “for you made a fair and square agreement with me.”

“You are the one who lies!” Merry asserted. “I never saw you before.”

“You’re a cheap chap to go back on your word.”

This was something more than Frank could stand, and he had the stout man by the collar in a moment.

“Swallow your words!” he said, as he gave the man a shake. “Take them back!”

“Never! It’s true!”

Then Frank Merriwell gave that corpulent party such a shaking that it took the wind out of Hazen and made him limp as a rag.

“Sus-sus-stop it!” he spluttered. “How dare you lay hands on me?”

“How dare you offer me money to throw this game!” exclaimed Merry indignantly. “What you need is a first-class thrashing!”

“That’s the stuff!” roared the crowd. “Give it to him, Merriwell!”

An officer appeared, and Hazen was ordered back to the bleachers. He retired, his face purple with anger, while he muttered beneath his breath.

This little incident seemed to turn the sympathy of a great portion of the audience toward Merriwell. Somebody shouted:

“What’s the matter with Frank Merriwell?”

The crowd thundered:

“He’s all right!”

“Play ball!” called the umpire impatiently.

Hazen resumed his seat beside Wescott, who said:

“Well, you made an exhibition of yourself! What good did it do you?”

“That fellow is a fool!” growled the stout man.

“You might have known you could not buy him.”

“Every man has his price.”

“Not Frank Merriwell.”

“Oh, I don’t believe he is an exception.”

“You found him so.”

“I didn’t offer him enough.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because there is another way to get this game.”

“How?”

“I know Derring, the umpire.”

“Well?”

“He has seen me.”

“What of that?”

“He’s looking this way now.”

Then Hazen suddenly held up his hand and made a peculiar sign. It was impossible to tell whether Derring saw and understood or not.

“What are you doing?” asked Wescott.

“Making my last bid for this game,” declared the corpulent man.

“Well, you must have nerve!” exclaimed Wescott. “That fellow can’t throw the game now.”

“Perhaps not; but we’ll see. Look at that. Ha!”

Gamp was the batter, and at this juncture the umpire called a strike on him that was over his head.

“Do you think he did that intentionally?” whispered Wescott, as the crowd roared in derision.

“Wait,” was the only thing Hazen would say.

The next ball was wide of the plate, but again a strike was called by the umpire.

“Sus-sus-sus-say!” stuttered Joe, “dud-dud-dud-don’t you want me to lend ye a pup-pup-pup-pair of glasses?”

The next ball was so low that the catcher almost picked it up off the ground, but the umpire loudly announced:

“Batter is out!”

“Rank!” howled a voice.

“Bum!” yelled another.

“Awful! awful!” shrieked a shrill-voiced man.

Then the crowd took it up and jeered at the umpire.

“By George!” exclaimed Wescott, laughing, “I believe the fellow has taken you at your offer, Hazen!”

The corpulent gambler drew a breath of relief.

“I hope he has,” he said. “There’s a bare show that the Stars will win out.”

Gamp made the third one out, and the home team came in from the field.

Merry went out and protested to the umpire, but his protest did no good.

“We’ll have to hold them down, fellows,” said Frank. “It’s the only way to win out.”

His arm, however, was feeling bad, and he was fearful that he might find great trouble in remaining in the box to the end.

Teller headed the list for the home team, and he was the first man up. Frank gave him the first one right over the heart of the plate.

“One ball!” said the umpire.

Frank looked at the man.

“Did I understand you?” he asked. “Did you call that a ball?”

“Don’t get fresh, young man!” growled the umpire. “You know it was a ball!”

“Didn’t it go straight over the heart of the plate?”

“It was a ball! I called it that, and it has to stand.”

The crowd showed its disgust by uttering cries of derision, and shouting scornfully at the umpire. Merry put another over, but this time he used a drop.

“Two balls!”

“Outrage!” snarled Hodge. “Hit him, Merry!”

Teller realized that something had happened, and he refused to strike at either of the next two pitched, though both were on the outside corner. The umpire sent him to first.

Then came Skew, who swung at the ball as Teller went down to second for a steal.

For once, Hodge threw a bit wild, but Rattleton got the ball and jumped for the man, who slid. Teller was tagged while two feet off the base.

“Safe at second!” said the umpire.

“What is this?” yelled a man on the bleachers. “We came here to see a game of ball. This is a regular roast!”

The work of the umpire was turning the crowd against the home team.

Skew hit the next ball pitched. It went straight at Ready, who gathered it up and saw it would be an easy thing to catch the runner with a good throw. Jack sent the ball whistling across the diamond, and Browning had it three seconds before the runner passed over first.

“Safe!” cried the umpire.

Frank tried to convince the umpire that the decision was wrong, but found he was wasting his breath in talk.

O’Grady came up. Thinking he might wait to get his base on balls, Merry ventured one on the corner.

O’Grady hit it hard.

“That ties the score!” cried many.