The Merries seemed rather nervous. In fact, they were too anxious, and they began practice by several bad fumbles and throws. Hodge was one of the offenders. He made a high throw to second. “Whip it down again, Bart,” said Frank. Bart obeyed, but this time his throw was too low. Immediately Frank took the ball and threw to second, taking pains to make the throw good. It was a case of showing exactly what he wanted done. Hodge set his teeth and resolved that every throw should be perfect after that, and it was. To some it may have appeared that Merry was showing off. Instead of that, he was impressing Bart by force of example. As Grafter watched the Merries practice he became more and more uneasy. “I didn’t kiss that thousand good-by,” he said; “but I think I’d better have done it. I’ll never see it again.” Again Gowan grinned. “Oh, don’t squeal so soon, dad!” cried Wallace, annoyed. “The trouble with you is that you have been reading the papers and you’ve got cold feet.” “The trouble with you,” growled the old man, “is that you’re stuck on Frank Merriwell, and you think the whole of his bunch just as good as he is. They’re not. They’re ’way below him.” “He’ll do the pitching to-day.” “Pitching alone can’t win a game.” “And he’ll be up against Mat O’Neill,” reminded Gowan. “O’Neill will show him up.” “Look here!” exclaimed Wallace. “I have a hundred or two on me that I’ll risk. I’ll wager that more hits are made off O’Neill to-day than off Merriwell.” “Put up as much as you dare,” invited Gowan. “I’ll cover all you have.” The bet was made. There was some delay over beginning the game. Captain Hurley informed Merriwell that he was waiting for one of his players. Finally the crowd in front of the gate parted, several policemen making an opening for a handsome landau, which was drawn by a spirited pair of white horses. The carriage swung up toward the bench of the Outcasts and came to a stop. From it sprang a small, compactly built, swarthy chap in a baseball suit. At sight of this person Merriwell and several of his companions uttered exclamations of surprise. “Do my eyes deceive me?” cried Frank. “That fellow looks as natural as life! I must be dreaming!” The newcomer hastened across back of the home plate, his face wreathed in smiles. “Once more,” he cried, “once more I feast my optics on the only and original Frank Merriwell, my old college chump and side partner. The spectacle causes my throbbing heart to swell with emotions too turgid for utterance. Allow me to grasp your dainty digits, Frank.” “Cap’n Wiley, as I live!” laughed Frank, as he shook hands with the person who had made his appearance in this spectacular manner. “Why, cap’n, I fancied you had faded from this terrestrial sphere.” “Nay, nay, Pauline! I am here—very much here, as you will find to your sorrow before the game of to-day has passed into history.” “You are playing with the Outcasts?”