“One ball!” called the umpire. “What are you trying to do?” muttered Crockett. “Trying to take my props off?” “Wee! wee!” squeaked Obediah Tubbs, prancing around like a baby elephant. “Near skinned him of his kneecaps that time!” A high ball followed. To Crockett it seemed as if the ball would pass over the plate level with his shoulders. As he swung to meet it the ball seemed to take a singular outward and upward sweep, and he missed. “What sort of a curve was that?” growled Anson, who had been watching closely. “Looked like a high out-rise to me.” “Out-rise!” sneered Warren. “Who ever heard of an out-rise?” “Well, that’s what it looked like,” nodded Anson. “You know this fellow has some mighty odd curves.” “Well, we’re ready for his old jump ball to-day,” retorted Warren. “We’ve practiced to hit a sharp rise, and he will find his jump ball n. g.” “But you know he has a queer combination rise and drop,” said Milliken. “Don’t know anything of the kind,” asserted Warren. “It’s an impossibility. The way he delivers a ball makes it seem to rise and drop, that’s all.” “Well, anyhow, he has the reputation of throwing it,” said Milliken. Crockett was anxious to start the thing with a hit, and Dick found himself compelled to work cautiously with the fellow, for, even though desiring a hit, the batter was one who refused to be deceived by ordinary methods. With three balls and two strikes called, the batter and pitcher paused an instant to look hard at each other. There was a hush. With his toe on the very outer edge of the slab at one side of his box, Merriwell suddenly rose to his full height in the air, stretched his arm far upward as he brought it over, and the ball left his hand at the moment when he seemed reaching highest in the air. Downward from that height the sphere shot toward the outside corner of the plate, over which it passed about a foot from the ground. It was a most deceptive ball to strike at, for it passed over the plate at least a foot lower than expected by the batter, who swung hard for it and missed. Buckhart was close under the stick, and the ball plunked into his big mitt. “You’re out!” declared the umpire. Crockett retired to the bench, flinging aside his bat. “Say,” he muttered, “this fellow has some new wrinkles this year. He threw one or two queer ones that time. Did you see that last ball? I don’t know how I missed it.” “It was a drop, wasn’t it?” asked Anson. “Drop—nothing! It was a straight ball, but he threw it with his hand stretched high, and it came down at an angle and on a line. Next time I will be watching for it.” “Well, there’s your first batter gone, Bessie,” said Zona Desmond. “He didn’t hit the ball, did he!” “They can’t all hit,” retorted Zona’s cousin. “But you watch Dustan! He never strikes out!” “Oh, doesn’t he?” “No, indeed!” “Perhaps he will this time.” “It will be the first time this year, if he does.”