“Oh, you would, would ye!” muttered the Elkton pitcher. “Well, why don’t ye!” “Tut-tut-taking a bub-bub-bite out of it every time, Dick!” cried Joe Gamp. “You’ll land on the trade-mark in a minute.” “Yah!” nodded Dunnerwurst; “der trade-mark vill land on you in a minute, py Shimminy! Id vill knock you a mile.” “Strike him out, Wolfers!” implored the spectators. “He’s easy. Strike the big fellow out!” Wolfers was working hard, and he finally succeeded in fooling the yellow-haired chap to his satisfaction, for Dick missed the third strike and was declared out. “How easy!” laughed a man on the bleachers. “That’s the kind of a pitcher to have!” “That’s the kind they raise up in Wisconsin,” said another man. It was Bart’s turn to strike. “Got to get a hit,” thought Hodge, as he chose a bat of medium weight. “He’s using the spit ball, Bart,” said Starbright. “The things are slippery, and you have to hit them square on the nose.” Bart nodded. It was the first time for the season that the Merries had encountered a pitcher who was master of the new “spit ball.” Wolfers seemed to have it down fine, his control being something beautiful to witness. As Merry had observed, the Elkton twirler had a head full of brains. Although master of the spit ball, he did not use it constantly. He worked different batters in a variety of ways. His curves were fine, but he had something better than curves, which was control. He seemed able to put the ball exactly where he desired. He studied the batters. While sitting on the bench, he had watched closely to discover the weak spots of every man. If he found a player inclined to strike over a low ball, he kept the ball low on him all the time. If he found a man who was inclined to step toward the plate when striking, he kept the ball close to that man, thus making it almost certain that he would hit it close to his fingers if he hit it at all. On the other hand, if a hitter pulled away from the plate, he used an outcurve, keeping the ball over the outside corner or beyond it. If such a batter hit it, the end of the bat was almost certain to be the point of contact, and there is seldom much force in a hit made in such a manner. In Wolfers, Merriwell fancied he discerned “big league material.” He believed the man would be “discovered” by some manager and “reserved” before the season closed. Hodge was grimly determined, but determination did not count for much in the face of Wolfers’ pitching. Bart did his best to “work” the man from Wisconsin, but was finally “worked” himself, being led into putting up a weak pop fly to Rush, the Elkton shortstop. “Oh, we’ve got ye!” howled one of the local rooters. “You may as well give up.” “We’re not the kuk-kuk-kind that gives up,” growled Gamp, as he strode out with his bat on his shoulder. In the meantime, Merry was working his arm out slowly, taking care not to twist his weak left ankle.