Now, although that Yale cheer had caused so many to look toward the newcomers, even though Dick heard it and recognized his brother’s voice, the boy with the bat did not flicker an eyelash. Perhaps he was the most astounded and delighted person on that field, yet not a muscle of his face changed. With the gaze of a hawk he watched Bretton, fearing if he turned for a single instant the Maplewood pitcher would put a straight one over the base. Perhaps never before had Dick’s nerves been tested under such circumstances. Had Frank and his friends known just how this game stood and how critical it was at that moment, beyond question they would have remained silent, fearing to unnerve the boy at bat. Bretton was a sharp chap, and he heard Hodge shouting the name of Frank Merriwell. Instantly he decided that Dick Merriwell would be somewhat unmanned, and therefore he sent over a straight ball with all the speed he could command. Dick met it squarely on the trade-mark. Away sailed the ball—away over centre-field fence. It was into the frog pond, and batted to the extremity, at that. “It’s a home run!” shouted Brick McLane. Round the bases sped Brad Buckhart, and after him came the boy who had made this wonderful hit at such a critical moment. Through the mire of the frog pond splashed the fellow in search of the ball. He found it and turned to throw it into the field. He did not possess the wonderful throwing arm of Chip Jolliby, and therefore he was compelled to throw to Dillard, the second baseman. Even had the fielder been able to line the ball to the plate, he could not have stopped the winning run, for when Dillard whirled with the sphere in his hand he saw Merriwell crossing the plate. How Uncle Gid Sniffmore ever got down from the seats and rushed onto the field in advance of the crowd forever remained a mystery in Fairhaven. In some manner the old man made the descent, and, when those roaring stonecutters picked Dick Merriwell up and bore him triumphantly around on their shoulders, Uncle Gid marched in advance, waving his cane and dancing like a frolicsome boy. No wonder Frank Merriwell stood with a mist in his eyes watching the spectacle. No wonder he gripped the arm of Browning, and, thrilled with satisfaction, cried in the big fellow’s ear: “That’s Dick—Dick, my brother!” * * * * * It was in the fifth inning of the second game that a message from Rockford reached the ball ground in Fairhaven telling the players there that Seaslope had won her final game of the season. Having heard this report, Tom Fernald hastened round to the Maplewood bench, where Benton Hammerswell sat with the scorer and Bretton, the pitcher of the first game. Fernald betrayed his anxiety in his face. In spite of his reputation as a “good loser,” Fernald was worried and distressed now. “Say, Hammerswell, this thing is getting pretty desperate,” observed the Rockford man as he took a seat at Benton’s side.