Frost smiled in his usual manner. “Take your hand out of my pocket, Grafter!” cried Manton. “The wind has changed.” “Perhaps so,” admitted the shot putter. “But it isn’t over yet.” It was Manton’s turn to roll his ninth. “Put a strike on top of that spare, old boy!” urged Fisher. The gentleman pugilist tried hard enough, but the ball swept straight through the centre of the pins, leaving one on either corner. Manton stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at the two pins. Grafter laughed. “The wind seems to be full of flaws,” he remarked. Boiling with anger, Manton seized a ball and sent it booming along to take off one of the two pins. “One hundred and ninety-three in the eighth box, and two hundred and two in the ninth,” said Fuller. “Ten ahead of Merriwell in the eighth,” muttered Frost, clinging to hope. “Let’s see what Merriwell will do.” Frank’s turn came directly, and he went after the pins in a resolute manner. He got them. “Strike!” was the shout, as he swept them all down. Manton seemed to turn green. Grafter opened his lips to rejoice, but changed his mind and said nothing. “Luck—nothing but luck!” said Frost freezingly. Still Manton did not give up, for he knew there was a possibility that his antagonist might take a terrible slump in the last box. “Keep after him, old man,” urged Fisher. “You may pull out.” “Not much chance for it,” confessed Manton; but still he tried hard, and swept down all the pins. “Roll it off; it’s your last box,” said Fuller. Manton repeated the trick twice more. “A good string,” observed Fisher. “Not for me,” muttered the gentleman pugilist, as he went for his collar and necktie. “Eat ’em up, Frank!” urged Hodge. “Go after them all. The first ball counts.” Merriwell knew it. He betrayed no uneasiness, but he took the utmost pains. There was a hush as he sent the huge ball rolling down the polished alley. Crash! It was a strike. Manton turned away. He could not speak, and his hands shook a bit as he buttoned on his collar and adjusted his tie. Merry waited for the pins to be reset and his ball to be returned. Then he rolled again. “Another strike!” exclaimed Hodge. But it was not. Nine pins fell. Fuller quickly added up the score which showed that Frank had defeated Manton by nine points. CHAPTER IV. SOREHEADS. Hobart Manton was sore all the way through. Having put on his coat, he came over to Merriwell, who was betraying no exultation over the outcome. “I presume it’s up to me to say something pleasant,” he observed. “You defeated me on the level, all right; but you couldn’t do it again in a week.” “Perhaps not,” admitted Frank, unruffled. “Still you know there is an old saying that the future may be judged only by the past. I’m not a champion bowler.” “You’re not?” “No, sir.” “Why, I thought you pretended to be a champion at everything you attempted to do.”