“That’s all right,” declared one of the Giants. “We’ll fall on his neck next inning.” “Oh, yes you will!” derisively roared a big man. “You’ll fall on his neck—I don’t think!” Lawrence seized the opportunity as a favorable one to make an announcement. Walking out to the home plate, he held up his hand for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, “I wish to inform you that there will be another game here in Elkton Monday afternoon at the usual hour.” “Hooray!” bellowed the big man. “I’ll quit work to come! You can’t give us too much of this kind of baseball!” “It seems,” said the manager of the Elks, smiling, “that some baseball players are greedy to be trimmed. They don’t know when they have enough. Our first game with Frank Merriwell’s Athletic Team resulted in a victory for us. The Merries were not satisfied. Mr. Merriwell has boned us into giving him another game. We intend to give him all he wants. I understand that Merriwell himself will pitch for his team. Bob Wolfers will do the pitching for us, and——” What a yell went up! “Oh, that’s a shame!” howled the big man, as the uproar subsided somewhat. “Why don’t you give them a chance? It isn’t fair!” “We propose to show you just what kind of a game we can put up with Wolfers in the box,” said Lawrence. “We promise you your money’s worth. Don’t miss it.” “We won’t!” they cried. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXII PERFECT CONTROL. Following was the batting order when the Merries again faced the Elks: MERRIES. ELKS. Ready, 3d b. Kitson, rf. Morgan, ss. Cronin, 3d b. Badger, lf. Sparks, cf. Merriwell, p. Rush, ss. Hodge, c. Glade, rf. Gamp, cf. Tinker, 2d b. Browning, 1st b. Cross, 1st b. Rattleton, 2d b. Sprowl, c. Dunnerwurst, rf. Wolfers, p. The Elks fancied they would have an easy thing with Wolfers in the box. Still they were anxious to get a safe lead early in the game, and Lawrence urged them to “jump on” Merriwell without delay. Of course the Merries were sent to bat first, as this gave the locals their last opportunity. Wolfers was chewing gum and grinning when he went into the box. He looked more than ever like a wolf, yet he seemed to be very good-natured. The crowd cheered him and he touched his cap in acknowledgment. “Good old Bobby!” howled the same big man who had made himself heard so often at the game with the Cuban Giants. “You’re the boy! This will be a picnic for you.” The usual gathering of small boys was to be seen. Spud Bailey was on hand, and he seemed to be an object of much ridicule.