“Can you blame him?” wheezed Gowan. “Oh, they didn’t do so bad after the first man,” declared Wallace. “The others hit the ball.” “Only one of them hit it anywhere, and that was an accident.” “It was more of an accident than anything else that Merriwell didn’t get a safe one. He nearly took the hands off that rattle-tongued chap at short.” Merriwell entered the box, and Creel, the centre fielder, smiling and confident, walked out to bat. At the very outset, Hodge called for Frank’s new curve. “Oh, he’s going to deliver the salivered sphere!” cried Wiley, as he saw Frank moisten the ball. “Hit one of those and it will travel at the rate of a mile a second.” “Cease thy idle prattle, cap’n,” implored Ready, who was in position near third. “You are giving the tympanum of my ear a sensation of ennui.” “Hey?” gasped the sailor. “What’s that? Ong wee? Is that proper pronunciation? I thought it was enn-you-eye. Ong wee! That sounds good to me. I’ll use it at the first opportunity.” Frank delivered the ball. It swept downward from his hand toward the inside of the plate, but curved and swept upward and outward, crossing the outside corner. Creel had looked for the usual drop of the spit ball, and he struck under. “Strike one!” The batter looked surprised. He knew the ball had taken some kind of a queer shoot, but he did not know just what had happened. “Hit it where you missed it, Creel, old boy!” urged Wiley. “Look out for the double-shoot. He’ll hand one up in a minute, and you will have an opportunity to demonstrate the ease with which we can project it to yonder fence.” Frank pitched again and tried the other sweep. The ball seemed to start toward the outside of the plate. Suddenly it swept upward and inward, and again Creel missed. “Strike two!” Creel gasped. “What’s that he’s throwing?” he muttered. “Oh, hit the ball!” chuckled Hodge. “It’s easy enough!” “I’ll hit the next one!” growled Creel. “Bet you don’t.” “I will if I swing at it.” “Bet you don’t.” “Don’t talk to that catcher, Tip,” commanded Hurley sharply. Creel was silenced. He set his teeth, gripped his bat and waited. At the same time, although ready to strike, he more than half expected Frank would “waste” one or two balls. Merry saw the fellow was ready to swing if the ball came over. Again he delivered it a trifle wide, but it swept in and upward, being caught by Hodge almost directly behind the batter’s shoulder. In fact, it seemed to pass under Creel’s arm as the latter swung at it. “You’re out!” announced the umpire. “I’d like to know what sort of a curve he used on me!” muttered Tip Creel, as he reseated himself on the bench. “It had a mighty queer twist.” Hurley was watching closely. “It wasn’t the double-shoot Wiley has been teaching us to hit,” he said. “If it was,” said Creel, “Merriwell throws it entirely different from Wiley.” “Look here, cap’n,” demanded Swatt, “have you been deceiving us?”