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Frank Merriwell at Yale; Or, Freshman Against Freshman

<h2> CHAPTER XXVII. </h2> <h3> A CHANGE OF PITCHERS. </h3>  "The game is lost!" "Sure." "Yale has not scored since the second inning." "That's right. She made one in the first and three in the second, and then comes four beautiful whitewashes. Harvard hasn't missed a trick, and the score is eleven to four in her favor." "Lewis, this is awful!" "Right you are, Jones. Hear those Harvard rooters whoop up! It gives me nervous prostration." The Yale freshmen were playing the Harvard freshmen on the grounds of the latter team, and quite a large delegation had come on from New Haven to witness the game, which was the second of the series of three arranged between the freshmen teams of the two colleges. The first had been played at New Haven, and the third was to be played on neutral ground. Yale had won the first game by heavy batting, the final score being twelve to eleven. As the regular 'Varsity nine had likewise won the first of their series with Harvard, the "Sons of Eli" began to think they had a sure thing, and those who came on from New Haven were dead sure in their minds that they would bring back the scalps of the Harvard freshmen. They said over and over that there would be no need of a third game to settle the matter; Yale would settle it in the second. Walter Gordon had pitched the whole of the first Harvard game. He had been hammered for thirteen singles, two two-baggers, and a three-bagger, and still Yale had pulled out, which was rather remarkable. But Walter had managed to keep Harvard's hits scattered, while Yale bunched their hits in two innings, which was just enough to give them the winning score. It was said that Frank Merriwell was to be given a show in the second game, and a large number of Yale men who were not freshmen had come on to see what he would do. Pierson had been particularly anxious to see Merriwell work, and he had taken a great deal of trouble to come on. The "great and only" Bob Collingwood, of the 'Varsity crew, had accompanied Pierson, and both were much disappointed, not to say disgusted, when Old Put put in Gordon and kept him in the box, despite the fact that he was being freely batted. "What's the matter with Putnam?" growled Pierson. "Has he got a grudge against Merriwell, or does he intend to lose this game anyway?" "He's asleep," said Collingwood, wearily. "He's stuck on Gordon." "He must be thick if he can't see Gordon is rapidly losing his nerve. Why, the fellow is liable to go to pieces at any minute and let those Willies run in a score that will be an absolute disgrace." "Go down and talk to him, Pierson." "Not much! I am too well known to the Harvard gang. They wouldn't do a thing to me—not a thing!" "Then let's get out of here. It makes me sick to hear that Harvard yell. I can't stand it, Pierson." "Wait. I want to see Merriwell go into the box, if they will let him at all. That's what I came for." "But he can't save the game now. The Yale crowd is not doing any batting. All Harvard has to do is to hold them down, and they scarcely have touched Coulter since the second inning." "That's right, but the fellow is easy, Coll. If they ever should get onto him—" "How can they? They are not batters." Pierson nodded. "That is true," he admitted. "They are weak with the stick. Diamond is the only man who seems to know how to go after a ball properly. He is raw, but there is mighty good stuff in that fellow. If he sticks to baseball he will be on the regular team before he finishes his course." "I believe Merriwell has shown up well as a batter in practice." "He certainly has." "Well, I should think Old Put would use him for his hitting, if for nothing else. He is needed." "It seems to me that there is a nigger in the woodpile." "You think Merriwell is held back for reasons not known?" "I do." "Say, by jingoes! I am going down and talk to Putnam. If he doesn't give Merriwell a trial he's a chump." "Hold on." "What for? If I wait it will be too late for Merriwell to go in on the first of the seventh." "Perhaps Merriwell may stand on his dignity and refuse to go in at all at this late stage of the game." "He wouldn't be to blame if he did, for he can't win out." "Something is up. Hello! Merriwell is getting out of his sweater! I believe Putnam is going to send him out!" There was a great satisfaction in Pierson's voice. At last it seemed that he would get a chance to see Merriwell work. "Somebody ought to go down and rap Putnam on the coco with a big heavy club!" growled Collingwood. "He should have made the change long ago. The Harvard Willies have been piling up something every inning." Down on the visitors' bench Merriwell was seen to peel off, while Gordon was talking rather excitedly to Burnham Putnam. It seemed evident by his manner that he was speaking of something that did not please him very much. Merriwell was pulled out of his sweater, and then somebody tossed him a practice ball. Little Danny Griswold, the Yale shortstop, put on a catcher's mitt and prepared to catch for Frank. Yale was making a last desperate struggle for a score in the sixth inning. With one man out and a man on first, a weak batter came up. If the batter tried to get a hit, it looked like a great opportunity for a double play by Harvard. Old Put, who was in uniform, ran down to first, and sent in the coacher, whose place he took on the line. Then he signaled the batter to take one, his signal being obeyed, and it proved to be a ball. Put was a great coacher, and now he opened up in a lively way, with Robinson rattling away over by third. Put was not talking simply to rattle the pitcher; he was giving signals at the same time, and he signed for the man on first to go down on the next pitch, at the same time giving the batter the tip to make a fake swing at the ball to bother the catcher. This programme was carried out, and it worked, for the runner got second on a slide and a close decision. Then the Yale rooters opened their throats, and blue banners fluttered in a bunch over on the bleachers where the New Haven gang was packed together. "Yell, you suckers, yell!" cried Dickson, Harvard's first baseman. "It's the only chance you'll get." His words were drowned in the tumult and noise. Up in the grand stand there was a waving of blue flags and white handkerchiefs, telling that there were not a few of the fair spectators who sympathized with the boys from New Haven. Then the man at the bat reached first on a scratch hit and a fumble, and there seemed to be a small rift in the clouds which had lowered over the heads of the Yale freshmen so long. But the next man up promptly fouled out, and the clouds seemed to close in again as dark as ever. In the meantime Frank was warming up with the aid of Danny Griswold, and Walter Gordon sat on the bench, looking sulky and downcast. "Gordon is a regular pig," said one of the freshman players to a companion. "He doesn't know when he has enough." "Well, we know we have had enough of him this game," said the other, sourly. "If we had played a rotten fielding game Harvard would have a hundred now." "Well, nearly that," grinned the first speaker. "Gordon hasn't struck out a man." "And still he is sore because Putnam is going to put Merriwell in! I suppose that is natural, but—Hi, there! look a' that! Great Scott! what sloppy work! Did you see Newton get caught playing off second? Well, that gives me cramps! Come on; he's the last man, and we'll have to go out." So, to the delight of the Harvard crowd, Yale was whitewashed again, and there seemed no show for the New Haven boys to win. Walter Gordon remained on the bench, and Frank walked down into the box. Then came positive proof of Merriwell's popularity, for the New Haven spectators arose as one man, wildly waving hats and flags, and gave three cheers and a tiger for Frank. "That's what kills him!" exclaimed Pierson in disgust. "It is sure to rattle any green man." "That's right," yawned Collingwood. "It's plain we have wasted our time in coming here to-day." "It looks that way from the road. Why couldn't the blamed chumps keep still, so he could show what he is made of?" "It's ten to one he won't be able to find the plate for five minutes. I believe I can see him shaking from here." The Harvard crowd had never heard of Merriwell, and they regarded him with no little interest as he walked into the box. When the Yale spectators were through cheering Harvard took it up in a derisive way, and it certainly was enough to rattle any fellow with ordinary nerves. But Frank did not seem to hear all the howling. He paid no attention to the cheers of his friends or the jeers of the other party. He seemed in no great hurry. He made sure that every man was in position, felt of the pitcher's plate with his foot, kicked aside a small pebble, and then took any amount of time in preparing to deliver. Collingwood began to show some interest. He punched Pierson in the ribs with his elbow and observed: "Hanged if he acts as if he is badly rattled!" "That's so. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry," admitted Paul. "He is using his head at the very start, for he is giving himself time to become cool and steady." "He has Gibson, the best batter on the Harvard team, facing him. Gibson is bound to get a safe hit." "He is pretty sure to, and that is right." Merriwell knew that Nort Gibson was the heaviest and surest batter on the Harvard team, but he had been watching the fellow all through the game, trying to "get his alley." He had seen Gibson light on a drop and smash it fiercely, and then he had seen him get a safe hit off a rise, while an outcurve did not fool him at all, as he would bang it if it came over the plate or let it alone when it went outside. Frank's mind was made up, and he had resolved to give Gibson everything in close to his fingers. Then, if he did hit it, he was not liable to knock it very far. The first ball Merriwell delivered looked like a pretty one, and Gibson went after it. It was an inshoot, and the batter afterward declared it grazed his knuckles as it passed. "One strike!" called the umpire. "What's this! what's this!" exclaimed Collingwood, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "What did he do, anyway?" "Fooled the batter with a high inshoot," replied Pierson. "Well, he doesn't seem to be so very rattled after all." "Can't tell yet. He did all right that time, but Gibson has two more chances. If he gets a drop or an outcurve that is within reach, he will kill it." Ben Halliday was catching for Yale. Rattleton, the change catcher and first baseman, was laid off with a bad finger. He was rooting with the New Haven gang. Halliday returned the ball and signaled for a rise, but Merriwell shook his head and took a position that meant that he wished to try the same thing over again. Halliday accepted, and then Frank sent the ball like a shot. This time it seemed a certain thing that Frank had depended on a high straight ball, and Gibson could not let it pass. He came near breaking his back trying to start the cover on the ball, but once more he fanned the air. "Great Jupiter!" gasped Collingwood, who was now aroused. "What did he do then, Pierson?" "Fooled the fellow on the same thing exactly!" chuckled Paul. "Gibson wasn't looking for two in the same place." Now the freshmen spectators from Yale let themselves out. They couldn't wait for the third strike, but they cheered, blew horns and whistles, and waved flags and hats. Merriwell had a trick of taking up lots of time in a busy way without pitching the ball while the excitement was too high, and his appearance seemed to indicate that he was totally deaf to all the tumult. "That's right, Merry, old boy!" yelled an enthusiastic New Haven lad. "Trim his whiskers with them." "Wind them around his neck, Frank!" cried Harry Rattleton. "You can do it!" Rattleton had the utmost confidence in his chum, and he had offered to bet that not one of the first three men up would get a safe hit off him. Sport Harris, who was always looking for a chance to risk something, promptly took Harry up, and each placed a "sawbuck" in the hands of Deacon Dunning. "I am sorry for you, Harris," laughed Rattleton after Gibson had missed the second time, "but he's going to use them all that way." "Wait, my boy," returned Sport, coolly. "I am inclined to think this man will get a hit yet." "I'll go you ten to five he doesn't." "Done!" They had no time to put up the money, for Merriwell was at work again, and they were eager to watch him. The very next ball was an outcurve, but it was beyond Gibson's reach and he calmly let it pass. Then followed a straight one that was on the level with the top of the batter's head, and Gibson afterward expressed regret that he did not try it. The third one was low and close to Gibson's knees. Three balls had been called in succession, and the next one settled the matter, for it stood three to two. "Has he gone to pieces?" anxiously asked Collingwood. "I don't think so," answered Pierson, "but he has wasted good opportunities trying to pull Gibson. He is in a bad place now." "You have him in a hole, Gibson," cried a voice. "The next one must be right over, and he can't put it there." "It looks as if you would win, Rattleton," said Harris in mild disgust. "Merriwell is going to give the batter his base, and so, of course, he will not get a hit." Harry was nettled, and quick as a flash returned: "Four balls hits for a go—I mean goes for a hit in this case." Harris laughed. "Now I have you sure," he chuckled. "In your mind, Sport, old boy." Merriwell seemed to be examining the pitcher's plate, then he looked up like a flash, his eyes seeming to sparkle, and with wonderful quickness delivered the ball. "It's an outcurve," was the thought which flashed through Gibson's mind as he saw the sphere had been started almost directly at him. If it was an outcurve it seemed certain to pass over the center of the plate, and it would not do to let it pass. It was speedy, and the batter was forced to make up his mind in a fraction of a second. He struck at it—and missed! "Three strikes—batter out!" called the umpire, sharply. Gibson dropped his stick in a dazed way, muttering: "Great Scott! it was a straight ball and close to my fingers!" He might have shouted the words and not been heard, for the Yale rooters were getting in their work for fair. They gave one great roar of delight, and then came the college yell, followed by the freshman cheer. At last they were given an opportunity to use their lungs, after having been comparatively silent for several innings. "Whoop 'er up for 'Umpty-eight!" howled a fellow with a heavy voice. "What's the matter with 'Umpty-eight?" "She's all right!" went up the hoarse roar. "What's the matter with Merriwell?" "He's all right!" again came that roar. When the shouting had subsided, Rattleton touched Harris on the shoulder and laughingly asked: "Do I win?" "Not yet. There are two more coming." "But I win just as hard, my boy." "Hope you do." The next Harvard batter came up, determined to do something, although he was a trifle uncertain. He let the first one pass and heard a strike called, which did not please him much. The second one was a coaxer, and he let that ball go by. The umpire called a ball. The third was a high one, but it looked good, and he tried for it. It proved to be a rise, and he struck under it at least a foot. Bob Collingwood was growing enthusiastic. "That Merriwell is full of tricks," he declared. "Think how he secretly coached the freshman crew up on the Oxford stroke last fall and won the race at Saltonstall. If it hadn't been for a traitor nobody would have known what he was doing with the crew, for he wouldn't let them practice at the machines." "I have had my eye on him ever since he entered Yale," confessed Pierson. "I have seen that he is destined to come to the front." The batter seemed angry because he had been deceived so easily, and this gave Frank satisfaction, for an angry man can be deceived much easier than one who keeps cool. Merriwell held them close in on the batter, who made four fouls in succession, getting angrier each moment. By this time an outdrop was the thing to fool him, and it worked nicely. "Three strikes and out!" called the umpire. Frank had struck out two men, and the Yale crowd could not cheer loud enough to express their delight. Old Put was delighted beyond measure, but he was keeping pretty still, for he knew what he was sure to hear if Yale did not pull the game out some way. He knew everybody would be asking him why he did not put Merriwell in the box before. Lewis Little was hugging himself with satisfaction, while Dismal Jones' long face actually wore something suggestive of a smile. Rattleton felt like standing on his head and kicking up his heels with the delight he could not express. "Oh, perhaps they will give Frank a show after this!" he thought. "Didn't I tell Put, the blooming idiot? It took him a long time to get out of his trance." Sport Harris coolly puffed away at a black cigar, seemingly perfectly unconcerned, like a born gambler. He had black hair and a faint line of a mustache. He was rather handsome in a way, but he had a pronounced taste for loud neckties. The next batter to come up was nervous, as could be seen at a glance. He did not wish to strike out, but he was far too eager to hit the ball, and he went after a bad one at the very start, which led him to get a mild call down from the bench. Then the fellow let a good one pass, which rattled him worse than ever. The next looked good and he swung at it. He hit it, and it went up into the air, dropping into Merriwell's hands, who did not have to step out of his tracks to get it. Yale had whitewashed Harvard for the first time in that game.       <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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