“My loyalty to my own team led me to do so,” protested Wiley. “Even though I love Frank Merriwell more than a long-lost brother—more than a drink after a drought—I am ever loyal to my own team. Don’t use the double-shoot to-day, Frank! Preserve your reputation by keeping it tucked safely up your flowing sleeve.” “The same old Wiley!” laughed Frank. “Don’t worry about me, cap’n. If you bat me out of the box to-day, I’ll take my medicine.” The sailor then shook hands with some of the others and hastened to join his comrades, Hurley calling sharply to him. As the Outcasts took the field, the sailor cantered out to the position of shortstop. “Now, O’Neill,” he cried, “unbend your wing and waft the crooked ones over the corners. Remember that I am behind you and fear not.” Mat O’Neill laughed. He was a slender chap, with long arms. He glanced round to make sure the players were in their positions and then toed the slab. Ready was in position to bat. O’Neill shot over a high inshoot that seemed to curve round Jack’s neck. “Avast, there!” shouted Wiley. “Permit the ruddy-cheeked blossom to have a passing glimpse of it.” The umpire pronounced it a strike. “That was sizzling hot, Mat!” exclaimed the catcher. “It burned in the mitt. You have your speed with you to-day. I don’t think they can see the ball.” Ready had nothing to say, which was quite unusual for him. He gripped his bat and waited for the next one. It looked wide, but came in and passed over the outside corner of the plate. “Two strikes!” cried the umpire. Wiley did a hornpipe. “It’s a shame, O’Neill!” he declared. “You should blush at your own perfidy. How can you do it? Don’t you see you have the poor boy shaking like a sheet in the wind! Just toss him one and let him strike at it.” “He makes me sore!” muttered Hodge. “I always did hate the sound of his tongue.” O’Neill pitched again. This time the ball looked altogether too high, but it dropped past Ready’s shoulders. Jack did not strike at it, but the umpire promptly declared him out. The wizard pitcher of the Outcasts had struck Ready out with three pitched balls, and Merriwell’s man had not tried to hit one of them. CHAPTER XVI. CLEVER PITCHING. “Oh, me! oh, my!” cried Wiley. “How could you be so careless, Jack? I fear your reputation will sink into ignominy. At least, you could have shut your eyes and fanned once. You did not even agitate the atmosphere with your wand.” “You seem to be agitating it altogether too much with your tongue,” flung back Ready, as he retired disconsolately to the bench. Morgan stepped out to take his place. “Who is this sedate youth?” inquired the sailor. “To me his classic countenance is strangely unfamiliar. I wonder if he will pass away in a trance, like his predecessor.” Mike Grafter had turned on his son as Ready was declared out.