“Oh, you know er lot erbout baseball!” sneered Freckles, while all the others laughed. “Mebbe you’ve got it inter dat nut of yourn that them Merriwell fellers will win dis game?” “I has,” acknowledged Spud defiantly. They jeered him. “You don’t know ernough ter come in w’en it rains,” said Freckles. “You’ll know more arter ther game. Frank Merriwell is goin’ ter pitch ther whole of this one.” “Dey’ll pound him outer der box inside of t’ree innin’s.” “I know a man dat’s bet two hundrud dollars ter one hundred dat the Merriwells will win.” “He’s a bigger fool dan you are! W’y didn’t he go burn his money. He’d had more fun wid it.” But Spud was unmoved. “You wait,” he muttered. “You’ll see.” Never in their careers had the members of Merriwell’s team been more determined to win, if possible. All levity was cut out of the early part of the game. They went at it seriously, earnestly, with heart and soul. Ready cast aside his flippancy and did his level best to start things off with a hit. The best he could do was to drive a grounder into the hands of Cronin, who whistled it across to Cross for an easy out. Wolfers continued to grin, although he had anticipated, beginning by showing his ability to strike a man out when he desired. Morgan fouled several times, finally striking out on a “spit ball,” which took a wonderfully sharp jump to one side as he swung, nearly getting away from Sprowl. “That’s the kind, Bob, old socks!” cried the catcher. “They never can hit those.” Badger popped a little one into the air, and the first three batters to face the wonder from Wisconsin were his victims. “Now get right after Merriwell, boys,” urged Lawrence, as his players reached the bench. “Clinch the game at the start, and then take it easy. Put us into it, Kit.” Merriwell did not limp as he walked out. His ankle was tightly supported with a broad leather band. In warming up he had found that his control was perfect. He could put the ball exactly where he pleased, and he felt that on this day he would be in his best form. He also felt that he would need all his skill. Kitson laughed. “Just put one over and see me bump it,” he urged. Frank looked round to make sure every man was in position. “We’re all behind you, Merry,” assured Rattleton. “Let him mump it a bile—I mean bump it a mile!” The first ball pitched looked good to Kitson. It was speedy and quite high. Just as the batter slashed at it the ball took a sharp rise, or jump, and the bat encountered nothing but empty air. “Stir-r-r-rike—kah one!” came from the umpire. Spud Bailey seized the first opportunity to rejoice. “Why didn’t he hit dat?” he cried. “Oh, wait, wait!” advised Freckles. “Dere’s plenty of time. He’ll hit der next one he goes after.”