The batter fell on Randall’s first ball, and cracked out a neat single. The next batter tried for a sacrifice, but he was unable even to put himself out. The ball rolled down to third, and the third baseman made a wild throw to first. Both men were safe, and the Franklin cheers redoubled. It was too much for Randall. In his anger he sent a fast one at the plate, and Peters himself landed on it. The ball streaked down toward first, but the unhappy substitute, playing Clancy’s position, muffed it. By the time he got through booting it around, the bases were filled, not a man was out, and Franklin seemed fated to run up a tremendous score. The next man advanced to the plate with a wide grin at Randall. The heavy end of Franklin’s batting order was up. At this instant, however, a shrill yell ascended from the gate. “Merriwell! Merriwell! Stop the game!” The yell rose to a roar. Men rose in the bleachers, stamping and waving their hats. Every one knew of Merriwell’s unexplained absence. Randall went white, and would have delivered the ball had not the umpire stopped him. Across the field careered a dust-white _Hornet_, with three uniformed figures clinging to it. Ted Crockett turned with a wild yell as Clancy drew up behind third. “Get in the game!” he shouted. “Merry, pitch! Take first, Clan! Catch, Billy!” A renewed storm of yells swept the field as the sudden shift of players was comprehended. Randall, white-faced, tried to protest, but Crockett waved him off the field. The three friends had made shift to don their uniforms as they rode into town, not without difficulty. Coming through the village they had heard how the game was going, and had hastened on to the field. While they took their positions, and Merry was given a moment to warm up, the crowd fell silent. Even the Franklin rooters had cheered, for they were clean sportsmen, but the Fardale fans began to realize that Merry had arrived too late. “They can’t do anything now except hold ’em down,” declared Coach Trayne. New life had been infused into the team, however. Villum Kess was capering around in right field trying to stand on his head, and almost succeeding. The ball was being snapped around the bases in wonderful fashion. One and all, the team were leaping into action as if the coming of Merry and his friends had turned the tide. Yet the score stood four to one, and the bases were filled, there were none out. “Play ball!” called the umpire. The Franklin batter stepped into his box. Merry poised himself on the mound and nodded at Billy’s eager signal. Then Merry did a strange thing: He knew that the men behind him had regained confidence, and he proceeded to show his confidence in them by lobbing over a slow, straight ball. The batter almost gasped with astonishment, but swung and took it on the nose. “Wow!”