Manton managed to repress any exhibition of satisfaction. Not a word of complaint did Merriwell utter. By his manner no one could have dreamed he was in the least disappointed. He took the other ball and rolled for a spare. Two pins went down and the one remaining tottered, swayed, and righted itself. “Nine pins,” said the scorer, as he made the record on the sheet. “Hard luck, Merriwell,” said Hobart. “You’ll have to do better than that.” “I think I shall,” admitted Merry. “Still I did my level best for that spare.” “Spares don’t count when the other fellow is making strikes,” observed Fisher. “The other fellow may not make strikes all the time.” “It’s plain you don’t know Manton. I’m afraid he’s roped you in as a mark, which was not very nice of him.” Fuller, who was scoring, looked disappointed, for he had hoped that his guest would do better. The pins were spotted and Manton went at them again. Boom! The ball went rolling down the polished alley. Crash! Every pin fell. “Another strike,” said Frost. “It’s the natural thing with him.” Frank had discarded the first ball used by him. He put it aside where it would not get mixed with the others. At this point he assumed all the self-command possible, fixing his mind on the point where he wished the ball to strike. He was steady as a mill. The ball was delivered perfectly, leaving his hand without the slightest jar as it touched the polished alley. With a soft boom it rolled straight to the point on which Merry had set his mind. Crash! “Strike!” cried Fuller. “That’s the stuff, Merriwell! Now you are showing your style!” “But he began a trifle late, I fear,” said Frost. “Don’t let your fears trouble you,” advised Bart Hodge. “The string is just started.” Grafter could not repress a smile of satisfaction. He did not like Manton, and it was his earnest wish that Merriwell would push the fellow hard, if he could not win. “You’re getting the range of the alley,” he said. “Of course you were taken at a disadvantage, not being familiar with it. You should have rolled a few before beginning.” Frank nodded. He realized that Grafter was right, but it was too late to rectify the mistake. “For one thing,” he said, “I think I made a mistake in the first ball I used. The finger grip was not just right for me. The holes were a trifle too close together.” “That’s odd,” said Frost. “That’s the pet ball of Spaulding, the champion of the Knickerbocker Bowling Club and the second best man in this club.” “Without doubt his hand is built differently from mine,” said Merriwell. “It’s a fine ball, but not suited to the breadth of my grip.” “When I fizzle I’ll tell you why it happened,” laughed Manton, in a most irritating manner. Hodge felt like punching the fellow; but Frank remained in nowise disturbed.