Dustan was watching for Merriwell’s jump ball, against which all Fairport players had been warned, and for which they had practiced batting against a professional pitcher who could throw a quick rise. Something led Dustan to fancy Merriwell had thrown the jump at the very start, for the first ball came speeding in almost shoulder high. The batter made an instantaneous calculation and struck above the course of the ball. To his surprise, he swung over it by at least eight inches. “Hang it!” he whispered to himself. “That was a straight one! If I had known, I might have knocked the cover off!” Zona Desmond pinched her cousin. “He didn’t hit it that time,” she said. “That’s all right,” confidently returned Bessie. “I have seen him get a hit lots of times after two strikes were called on him. It seems to put him on his mettle to have two strikes on him.” Dustan had a “good eye,” and he refused to wiggle his bat at the next two balls, both of which were wide. Then he saw Merriwell make the same movements as he did on delivering the first ball, and instantly Dustan calculated on another straight one. Apparently he had made no miscalculation, but the ball took a sharp drop just in time to prevent him from hitting it. “Two strikes!” sang the umpire. “There he goes! There he goes!” laughed Zona, giving Bessie a little shake. “What do you think about it now?” “I think just the same,” was the confident answer. “Even if he doesn’t get a safe hit, he will hit the ball.” “Do you believe he will hit it, Doris?” asked Zona. Doris did not reply. In fact, she did not hear the question. Her eyes were fastened on Dick Merriwell, and she was deaf to the words of her nearby friends. “Ye-ee-ee!” squealed Tubbs, once more prancing about awkwardly. “What you trying to do, captain? Why don’t you give us fellers a show? We’re all going to sleep out here!” “Don’t worry, Fatty,” advised a Fairport spectator; “you will have all you want of it before this game is over.” “Do tell!” grinned Obed. “Won’t that be just splendid! Anybody got a pie in his pocket? I’m hungry.” “There is a pie in the box doing the pitching,” laughed the same spectator. “Our boys will feed off him before the game is over.” “Dustan will get a hit now,” averred another watching youth. Dustan was on his nerve. He set his feet firmly and gripped his bat, while he watched every move made by the Fardale pitcher. He saw Dick go through the motions of delivering a swift ball, and apparently such a ball followed. It came straight enough and seemingly just where the batter wanted it, whereupon he slashed at it. To his unspeakable surprise the ball seemed to halt and hang in the air in such a manner that he struck too soon. Too late he realized this, and his rage caused him to hurl the bat to the ground as he heard the ball strike with the usual plunk in the catcher’s big mitt. Dustan had struck out for the first time that season. Zona Desmond actually pounded her cousin on the shoulder.