“Twenty-nine,” said Chester, as he rose and looked at the score board. “I must get two pins with my first ball in order to tie him. Well, here goes for eight pins.” Crash! He sent the ball into the pins. Six fell. “Only six!” he exclaimed, as if disappointed. “That puts you four in the lead in the third box,” said one of the spectators. “That ball should have been good for eight or nine,” asserted Chester. “Dern my picter!” exclaimed Tubbs. “He beats the earth!” “Sus-sus-sus-sixteen looks pretty good for him in that box,” stuttered Jolliby. “Sixteen is better than the average spare,” confessed Mel Fraser, who had heard the match was taking place and hurried to the gymnasium to witness it. “No bigger than the ordinary spare that I make,” declared Chet, wagging his head. “Well, there is another spare for you, if you hit them right,” said Fraser. “Oh, I will get it, all right,” promised Arlington, posing with his second ball ready. “Just watch this!” Once more, however, his confidence was too great, and to his unspeakable disgust he missed the pins entirely. Instantly he caught up the third ball and sent it with a snapping movement flying down the alley. This ball took off only one pin, which gave Chester seven in his fourth box and a total of forty. “If the alley had been level, I must have made another spare with my second ball!” he growled as he sat down. This was not true, for the ball had swerved, at most, less than half an inch in its course. Dick slowly moistened his fingers with the sponge. “Now let’s see him get another ten!” cried Arlington. “He can’t make all nines and tens.” Dick’s curve was a fraction too wide, for the ball missed the head pin and gave him a poor break. “I told you!” laughed Chet. “He couldn’t keep up that string of tens.” Buckhart started to say something, but remembered Dick’s warning and stopped. For all of the bad break, Merriwell sent his next ball into the pins in such a manner that they fell handsomely and only one was left standing. “Well, he has nine!” nodded Chester. “I think he will leave that one standing.” “You’ve got another th-th-th-th-think coming!” burst from Jolliby, as Dick picked off the tenth pin. “Ten!” called Gardner, making the record on the board. “Thirty-nine for Merriwell in the fourth box!” Arlington rose and stood with his hands on his hips, looking at the score board. He whistled softly. “Thirty-nine,” he said. “Why, he’s only one behind!” “And he hasn’t made a spare yet,” observed Barron Black. “I see I must get down to business,” said Chester. “I have fooled with him just as long as I can.” Having made this remark, he chose a ball and rolled. Crash! Every pin fell! “A strike!” shouted Fraser. “Well, wouldn’t that ju-ju-ju-jar you!” chattered Jolliby. “I rather think it will jar Mr. Merriwell a little,” said Chet, as he gracefully sat down, his face wreathed in smiles.