A large crowd turned out to witness the six-inning game between the ’varsity nine and Frank Merriwell’s “scrub” team. Yale was anxious about her ball team, for it was not showing up as well as it should, while Harvard and Princeton were said to be in prime condition. Despite his popularity, Frank had enemies in college, and those enemies were circulating the report that his arm was “broken,” that he had a “dead wing,” and that his day as a pitcher was past. They declared Yale was leaning on a broken reed when it depended on Merriwell to win games. There were stories about the new pitchers to be brought out by Harvard and Princeton. They were feared not a little. All acknowledged that Yale was in serious need of a first-class backstop. Stone or Noon might develop all right, but the uncertainty about them was wearing. Hodge, Merriwell’s candidate for the position, was sneered at. When it was known that Merriwell would get up a “scrub” team and play the regulars, Frank’s enemies hastened to say that the time had come when it would be seen how easy he could be batted. They knew that, as a rule, no pitcher who feels secure of his position on the regulars will take the chance of doing himself injury by pitching his level best for a “scrub” team. Generally, he considers it practice enough for the regulars if he pitches fairly well and lets it go at that. Frank’s enemies thought that was what he would do. They knew little of his plan to make the regulars hustle to win the game. There was much speculation as to the exact make-up of the “scrub.” “They say Diamond and Rattleton will play,” said Bink Stubbs, speaking to Sydney Gooch. “They are two of Merriwell’s particular cronies, you know, but neither one of them can play fast ball.” “What do you care?” laughed Gooch. “Oh, it’ll be nuts for me. I hope the boys will hammer Merriwell all over the lot.” When the “scrub” appeared there were exclamations of astonishment. “Whiskers!” cried one. “Is this to be a comedy game? There’s Bruce Browning. He’ll go to sleep running bases.” “Doing what?” cried another. “You don’t suppose he’ll run, do you? He wouldn’t run for a doctor if a rattlesnake bit him!” “Look!” shouted a third. “There’s Dismal Jones! Mommer! But this will be a peach of a game!” “And there’s Joe Gamp!” gasped a fourth. “When did he ever play ball? Oh, my! my! my!” “They’ve got him to coach!” laughed the first speaker. Phil Hardy, captain of the regulars, looked Merriwell’s nine over quizzically. “Look here, old man,” he grinned, drawing Frank aside, “what sort of a job is this?” “What?” asked Merry, blankly. “We are out here for practice, and we want to play against a team that will give us some.” “Don’t let that worry you. You are going to get all the practice you want, captain.” “But not with that turnout?” “Yes.” “Rats!” “You’ll see.” “What’s the use to fool! Why don’t you take the regular ‘scrub’?” “Because I have a better nine.”