“But are we going to stand for this?” “We can call the attention of the umpire to it. He’ll have to stop it.” “He doesn’t seem inclined.” “We’ll have to make him inclined, then. I think he’s pretty near square, although it’s likely he sympathized with the locals.” “Of course he does! We’ve got to fight for our rights, if we get them.” “That’s true; but we’ll fight on the level. No crookedness. No trickery.” So Bart went under the bat feeling rather sore and very anxious to get even with Sprowl. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXIII A BATTLE ROYAL. Cross hit to Frank, who tossed the ball to Browning for an easy out. Then it was Sprowl’s turn. As Bart crouched under the bat of the tricky catcher, he muttered: “I want to give you a warning, Mr. Man.” “Oh, do you?” “Yes.” “Go ahead.” “If you hit my bat with your mitt when I’m striking you’ll be sorry. I won’t stand for it.” “Why, what will you do?” “You’ll find out!” Sprowl laughed sneeringly. Then he batted a grounder to Ready, who made a poor throw to Browning, and Sprowl reached first. “Don’t talk to me!” he cried. “Don’t warn me! I always get a hit when somebody threatens me.” “Dot hid dit not get you!” cried Dunnerwurst. “Id peen not a hit. Off Vrankie Merrivell you got yet no hits ad all, and maype you vill nod dood id efer so long as I live.” “Why don’t you learn to talk United States?” cried Rush, who was coaching. “He can talk better than he can play ball,” said Sprowl, in his nasty way. Wolfers strode out with his bat. “Got a hit off me, did you, Merriwell!” he thought. “Well, here is where I even up.” Then Frank fooled him handsomely with a swift rise, a drop and a “dope ball.” Wolfers struck at them all. He fancied the dope was coming straight over, but the ball seemed to pause and hang in the air, as if something pulled it back. This caused the batter to strike too soon. “Str-r-r-rike—kah three! You’re out!” The man from Wisconsin turned crimson with anger and mortification. “Oh, I presume you think you’re a great gun!” he snapped at Frank. “Not at all,” retorted Merry. “It’s no trick to strike you out.” This infuriated Wolfers. “I don’t think it’s much of a trick to strike you out,” he flung back. “It’s dead easy for a good pitcher to do it,” laughed Merriwell. “Oh, you fresh duck!” muttered Wolfers, as he walked to the bench. “Just you wait! I’ll give you your medicine.” His appearance of good nature had vanished like fog before a hot sun. He was now consumed with rage and a desire to outdo Frank in some manner. “Lace ’em out, Kit!” implored Sprowl, as Kitson advanced to the plate. “He’s easy.” Never in his life had Merry pitched with greater ease. He used curves, speed and a change of pace, having perfect control. Although he could handle the “spit ball,” he did not attempt to use it. He did not believe it necessary.