Kitson was anxious to hit. Merry seemed to give him pretty ones, but the ball took queer curves and shoots, and soon the right fielder of the Elks struck out. The third inning was over, and neither side had scored. It was a battle royal between Wolfers and Merriwell. Up to this point two clean hits, one a two-bagger, had been made off Wolfers. Merriwell had not permitted a hit. Morgan opened the fourth by smashing a hot one along the ground to Rush, who stopped it but chased it round his feet long enough for Dade to canter down to first. “Here we go!” roared Browning. “You won’t go very far!” sneered Wolfers. Badger tried to sacrifice, but his bunt lifted a little pop fly to Wolfers, and he was out. Then came Merriwell again. “Don’t let this chap get another hit off you, Bob,” implored Cronin. “No danger of it,” said the pitcher. But on the second ball delivered Frank reached far over the outside corner of the plate and connected with the ball, cracking out a hot single that permitted Badger to speed round to third. Merry took second on the throw to catch Badger at third. The look on the face of Bob Wolfers was murderous. He stood and glared at Frank, who smiled sweetly in return. “You’re the luckiest fellow alive!” said the Elkton twirler. “I saw you shut your eyes when you struck at that ball.” “You’re so easy that I can hit your pitching with my eyes closed,” retorted Merriwell. Imagine the feelings of Spud Bailey. He was strutting now in the midst of the village boys, not a whit intimidated by threats of a “walloping” after the game. “I told you fellers how it would be before der game began,” he said, throwing out his chest, with his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “It couldn’t help bein’ dat way. Dey’re bangin’ der eye outer Wolfers, but I don’t see ’em hitting Frank Merriwell any.” “Wot sorter feller are you ter go back on yer own town, hey?” savagely snarled Freckles. “We’ll all t’ump yo’ as soon as we git ye off der groun’s!” “I ain’t goin’ back on me own town!” “You are!” “I ain’t goin’ back on me own town!” asserted Spud. “How many Elkton fellers is dere on dat team? They’ve dropped all our players an’ brung fellers in from ev’rywhere. If Frank Merriwell’s team was playin’ fer us, all you fellers would be yellin’ fer them.” This sort of logic did not go with the other boys, nevertheless, and Spud was very unpopular. Once again it was the turn of Bart Hodge to bat. He gave Sprowl a look as he came out. Sprowl snickered. “You scare me dreadfully,” he said. “Keep your paws off my bat when I’m striking,” warned Bart. Wolfers started with a drop. Bart missed it. He longed to get a clean, safe hit to right field, being satisfied that Merry would score on it if obtained, following Morgan in. The suspense was great, for every one realized that a hit meant one run—possibly two. Then Bart began to make fouls.