Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Marriage; Or, Inza's Happiest Day - Burt L. Standish - Страница 5

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Manton seemed just as confident as ever, but apprehension was beginning to grip him. In his heart he was troubled by a slight fear that he might fail.

It is this feeling of doubt that defeats many a man in the game of life, as well as in other games. No person should ever attempt a task while troubled by the smallest shadow of a doubt. He should have such command of himself that his confidence in his ability to succeed cannot waver. Through years of training Frank Merriwell had brought himself to the point where he refused to doubt when in anything like his normal condition.

At the very moment of delivering the ball Manton was assailed violently by the doubt he had been unable to crush out of his heart. That doubt sent an electric shock along his arm to his hand, which quivered as he released the ball.

Instantly he realized he was not going to strike the pins properly. Still he prayed for a fortunate result, knowing by experience that pins often fell well when hit poorly.

In vain.

The ball cut through them, taking down only seven, leaving two on one corner and one on the other.

“At last!” thought Hodge exultingly; but not a sound came from his lips, and only the gleam in his dark eyes could have betrayed what was passing in his heart.

“Well, now that was rotten, hard luck!” cried Manton, in disgust. “The ball slipped.”

“You’ve kept your promise, Manton,” said Grafter.

“What promise?”

“You said that when you missed you would tell us how it happened.”

Manton shot him a look of anger.

The pin boy had sent Manton’s ball back. He took it from the return and stood inspecting the pins.

“There’s a possible spare in it,” said Frost.

Manton turned to inspect the score sheet.

“A spare will save me,” mentally decided the Eagle Heights man. “If I can get those three pins with this ball, I’ll never let him catch me.”

He rolled with precision and determination. The ball went down the alley in beautiful style. It was his hope to send one of the two pins flying across to sweep down the single pin on the opposite corner, and he believed he was going to do it.

Fate was against him, however.

The ball took the two pins, and the head one shot across the alley, but it missed the single pin.

Manton clenched his fist and made a gesture of dismay, breathing an angry exclamation.

Fuller quickly jotted down the score.

“This is Merriwell’s grand opportunity!” cried Grafter. “I have a finger and thumb into your pocket, Manton.”

The Eagle Heights bowler turned away and sat down, mopping his perspiring face. Fisher stepped over and sat down beside him.

“Merriwell will slump, also,” he said, in a low voice. “It almost always happens that way. If the leading man falls down, the one following takes a tumble.”

“That’s something no one can count on,” muttered Manton.

“Great Scott!” gasped Fisher. “You’re not giving up?”

“Hardly; but that was infernal luck.”

It was almost certain that Denton Frost felt quite as bad about it as Manton, but he said nothing. His face was like a cake of ice.

“It’s the golden moment, Merry!” muttered Hodge, in the ear of Manton.

Frank knew it. There was nothing mechanical about him, yet he was steady as a piece of machinery. Through life he had tried to grasp his opportunities. This was an opportunity he must not miss.

The pins were up when he stepped onto the runway. He picked up his ball and took his position.

There was a hush.

In the midst of it Frost turned to Grafter and whispered:

“He’s shaking; he’ll blow up now.”

The whisper was loud enough for every one to hear, and Frost was rewarded by several hisses from the spectators.

Boom!—the ball sped down the alley.

“It’s another strike!” exclaimed an excited watcher.

Crash!

A dozen persons shouted, for it was a strike.

“Still he’s only one hundred and twenty-nine in his fifth, against your one forty-seven,” murmured Fisher, in the ear of Manton.

“But his strike gives him the advantage on the next two boxes,” muttered the gentleman pugilist huskily.

“He can’t beat you if you get right down to it.”

“I’ll do all I can.”

Fisher was disappointed in the manner of his companion.

Manton did try hard the next time, but two pins were left standing.

“I’m getting my whole hand into that pocket,” said Grafter.

Manton clipped off the two pins with his second ball, and secured a spare.

“That may hold Merriwell,” said Frost. “His turn is coming.”

Apparently Frank struck the pins perfectly, but there was another shout when it was seen that he had left two standing.

“I told you!” said Frost.

A gleam of hope came to Manton’s face.

Frank waited for the ball to be returned. Then he tried a difficult shot in the hope of getting a spare, but missed the first pin by the merest fraction of an inch. Fuller swiftly marked down the score, and a perfect roar filled the alley when the result was seen.

Merry had one hundred and fifty-seven in the sixth box and one hundred and seventy-five in the seventh, which tied Manton at that point.

In the eighth box he had one hundred and eighty-three, with the result of Manton’s spare to be recorded in that box, which, without doubt, would again put the Eagle Heights man in the lead.

“You have him!” hissed Fisher, in Manton’s ear. “Keep your nerve now and you’ll beat him out easily!”

Frost smiled in his usual manner.

“Take your hand out of my pocket, Grafter!” cried Manton. “The wind has changed.”

“Perhaps so,” admitted the shot putter. “But it isn’t over yet.”

It was Manton’s turn to roll his ninth.

“Put a strike on top of that spare, old boy!” urged Fisher.

The gentleman pugilist tried hard enough, but the ball swept straight through the centre of the pins, leaving one on either corner.

Manton stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at the two pins.

Grafter laughed.

“The wind seems to be full of flaws,” he remarked.

Boiling with anger, Manton seized a ball and sent it booming along to take off one of the two pins.

“One hundred and ninety-three in the eighth box, and two hundred and two in the ninth,” said Fuller.

“Ten ahead of Merriwell in the eighth,” muttered Frost, clinging to hope. “Let’s see what Merriwell will do.”

Frank’s turn came directly, and he went after the pins in a resolute manner.

He got them.

“Strike!” was the shout, as he swept them all down.

Manton seemed to turn green.

Grafter opened his lips to rejoice, but changed his mind and said nothing.

“Luck—nothing but luck!” said Frost freezingly.

Still Manton did not give up, for he knew there was a possibility that his antagonist might take a terrible slump in the last box.

“Keep after him, old man,” urged Fisher. “You may pull out.”

“Not much chance for it,” confessed Manton; but still he tried hard, and swept down all the pins.

“Roll it off; it’s your last box,” said Fuller.

Manton repeated the trick twice more.

“A good string,” observed Fisher.

“Not for me,” muttered the gentleman pugilist, as he went for his collar and necktie.

“Eat ’em up, Frank!” urged Hodge. “Go after them all. The first ball counts.”

Merriwell knew it. He betrayed no uneasiness, but he took the utmost pains.

There was a hush as he sent the huge ball rolling down the polished alley.

Crash! It was a strike.

Manton turned away. He could not speak, and his hands shook a bit as he buttoned on his collar and adjusted his tie.

Merry waited for the pins to be reset and his ball to be returned.

Then he rolled again.

“Another strike!” exclaimed Hodge.

But it was not. Nine pins fell.

Fuller quickly added up the score which showed that Frank had defeated Manton by nine points.