But Freckles was mistaken. The next ball was a wide outdrop, which Kitson let pass. Then came a high ball that changed into a drop and shot down past the batter’s shoulders. He had anticipated a drop, and he tried to hit it, but did not judge it correctly. “Stir-r-r-rike—kah two!” Spud didn’t miss his chance to turn on Freckles. “Shut up!” snapped Freckles. “He’s goin’ ter git a hit!” Kitson thought so himself. He picked out another that looked good. It was an inshoot, and it spanked into Bart’s big mitt. “You’re out!” came from the umpire. Spud Bailey stood on his head, but Freckles viciously kicked him over. Kitson shook his head as he walked to the bench. “He fooled me,” he acknowledged. “Still I should have hit ’em.” “Never mind,” said Cronin. “I’ll start something.” Ben Raybold was sitting on the bleachers. He smiled the least bit as he saw Merry easily dispose of Kitson. “He seems to be in his best form,” thought the backer of the visitors. “If so, I’ve won a hundred. I wish I’d made it more.” The eyes of Bart Hodge were gleaming. He hammered a hole into his big mitt with his fist. “Drop ’em into that pocket, Merry, old boy,” he cried. “You know how to do it.” “You bet my life he knows how!” cried Dunnerwurst. “They’re all swelled up over striking you out, Kit,” said Rush. “It won’t be so easy next time,” declared Kitson. “I’m onto his tricks.” “Plenty of speed.” “Oh, yes; but we like speed.” “Sure. We eat speed. If he keeps burnin’ ’em over, we’ll fall on him pretty soon and pound him to the four winds.” Merry remembered Cronin’s weakness. He kept the ball close to the fellow, and, having both control and speed, found it just as easy to strike him out. “Well! well!” cried the big man with the stentorian voice. “What’s the matter, boys?” “Get a hit, Sparksie,” urged Rush. “I think I can boost you along.” “Let him give me some of those swift inshoots,” muttered Sparks. This, however, Merry declined to do. He kept the ball away from Sparks, although starting it straight at him at least twice. His outcurve was wonderfully wide, and it quite bewildered the batter. Wolfers had ceased to grin. He realized that Merriwell was “showing him up” in the first inning. “Oh, well,” he muttered, “a strike-out pitcher isn’t the whole cheese.” Still he was nettled. Merry was testing himself. Kitson, Cronin, and Sparks were all batters of different styles. To mow them down in succession would be a severe test for any pitcher. This, however, was what Frank did. Sparks finally succumbed, declining at the finish to strike at a high straight one, and growling because the umpire called it a strike, although it was not above his shoulder. Spud Bailey was overjoyed. “Now, now, now!” he cried. “I guess you fellers begin ter see I ain’t such a fool!” “Oh, he can’t keep dat up,” sneered Freckles. “He’ll go all ter pieces arter one or two innin’s.”