“What’s der matter with you, Spud Bailey?” snarled a big chap, with red hair and plenty of freckles. “Wolfers will strike him out!” “Bet you two hundred t’ousan’ dollars he don’t!” hotly retorted Spud. “Dey never strike dat boy out!” “Bet your small change,” advised Freckles. “How do you know so much?” “I’ve read about Frank Merriwell. Wot’s der matter with you! You’re a back number!” “You’ll think you’re a back number arter you see wot Wolfers does ter him.” “Will I?” “Yes, yer will!” “Naw, I won’t!” “Yes, yer will!” “Naw, I won’t!” By this time they had their fists clenched and their noses close together, while they were glaring into each other’s eyes. “Say,” said Freckles, “arter ther game I’ll give you all that’s comin’ ter ye!” “You try it! I ain’t skeered of you!” “Stop that an’ watch ther game,” said another boy, butting between them. “A hit will do ther trick fer them fellers now.” “Wolfers won’t let him hit,” asserted Freckles. “He can’t help it,” declared Spud. “Don’t you never read no papers? Don’t you know northing about Frank Merriwell? He’s the greatest baseball player in the country.” “Guess ag’in,” advised Freckles. Frank fouled the first ball pitched. “Wot’d I tell yer?” shouted Freckles. “He bit a piece outer it,” said Spud. “He’ll have ter do better’n dat.” “He will, all right, all right.” Needless to say that Merry’s players were anxious. On third Rattleton crouched, ready to dash home on any sort of a hit. Ready played off first. He was tempted to go down before getting a signal from Frank. After that foul, Merry signaled. On the next ball pitched Jack scooted for second. Sprowl made a fake motion as if he meant to throw to second, but snapped the ball to third. Ready had slackened speed, intending to be caught between first and second if Sprowl threw to Tinker. Merry had signaled for Jack to work this trick in order to give Rattleton an opportunity to try to steal home. The Elks declined to step into the trap. Rattleton was compelled to plunge back to third. “It’s all right now,” asserted Spud Bailey. “Frank Merriwell will drive in two runs, an’ he may make a homer.” “You make me sick!” sneered Freckles. “I don’t berlieve he ever got a hit in his life.” “You’ll see! You’ll see!” Merry refused to bite at Wolfers’ “teasers,” but he missed one that was over the inside corner. A moment later the third ball was called. With two strikes and three balls declared, every one seemed to feel that the critical point of the game had been reached. The next ball pitched might settle the contest. Could Merriwell make a safe hit? That was the question. “It wouldn’t surprise me to see him lift it over the fence,” muttered Bart Hodge. Wolfers delivered the ball. Frank struck! And missed! Plunk!—the ball landed in Sprowl’s mitt. “You’re out!” yelled the umpire. Frank had struck out! His comrades on the bench seemed completely dazed. Freckles gave Spud a jab in the stomach, whooping with delight: