By this time the regulars were in the field. Ned Noon was behind the home plate, with little Haggerty, the Williams man, in the box. Jones was the first batter up for Merriwell’s side. He looked sad and heartless as he advanced to the plate. Haggerty flung his cap on the ground by his side. He stood with his little legs spread, chewing gum rapidly and grinning. He was a pleasant little fellow. Ned Noon came up under the bat at the very start. It was plain he was going to show what he could do. Haggerty sent in a pretty one, and Jones stared in surprise when the umpire called a strike. “Too bad!” he sadly muttered, with a shake of his head. “Didn’t know it was going over.” Some of the spectators laughed at him. “Look at the ball, Dismal,” cried one, “and you will make it weep.” Haggerty grinned and poised himself again. He made a round arm flourish, and sent in an outcurve. Jones struck, but he could not reach the ball by a foot. “Two strikes!” The spectators began to laugh. “Wait,” smiled Frank. “He may hit it all right.” But Dismal was a trifle rattled, and he missed the third one, striking out. “Oh, say, Merry!” exclaimed Capt. Hardy, who was sitting on the bench at Frank’s side; “this is going to be too much of a farce.” “Oh, I don’t know!” was Frank’s careless retort. “You can’t tell about that yet. You fellows may hold us fairly good play, so that there will be some interest in the game. Don’t get discouraged as soon as this.” “Come off! You know what I mean. That gang of yours hasn’t a show against us.” “Really! And you did not score the first time at bat! Your crust surprises me, old man.” “We didn’t score because that jay from New Hampshire caught a ball by accident, and you struck out the next two men. You can’t keep that up.” “I don’t know about that, either.” “Say, you make me tired!” came warmly from the captain’s lips, for he was aroused. “If you keep on, I’ll go in and take a hand myself.” “Do it! It will be jolly sport to strike you out, captain.” “Don’t get the swelled head, Merriwell! Don’t think you can strike everybody out! That is what spoils a good pitcher.” “You are right, Hardy,” nodded Frank, seriously. “The pitcher who is forever trying to strike out every batter who faces him soon kills himself. It is the man who holds them down to small hits who makes the success.” Hardy nodded, cooling down somewhat. “That is sensible talk,” he said. “I was afraid you had a bug in your nut. A fellow with a bug is N. G.” Tom Thornton followed Jones. One strike was called on him, and then he cracked out a hot one, which the shortstop fumbled long enough to let the batter reach first. Then, to the surprise of all, Joe Gamp took his place on the coaching line near first. “I swear if he isn’t going to coach!” cried a voice. “Well, this will be a riot!”