“Of course he can’t!” wheezed Gowan. “Those men of ours are great batters, and they’ll fall on him hard before long. When they do, you’ll see him go up in the air.” “How about that, son?” inquired Grafter. “Don’t you worry, dad,” advised Wallace. “I didn’t urge you to bet on the Merries without knowing what I was doing. I’ve found out all about Frank Merriwell. Mat O’Neill is a rattling good pitcher, but he’s met his match in Merriwell.” Bob Gowan laughed, holding onto his fat sides. “All boys are alike,” he said, “and your son is no more than a boy, Grafter. He has lots to learn.” “All boys are not fools,” retorted Wallace. “I fancy that before the game is over to-day you’ll confess that you have learned something.” Wallace was just a trifle disrespectful in his language. He was the young city man of the day, up-to-date, breezy, and assertive. Mat O’Neill realized that Merriwell had made the best record in the first inning, yet he was confident that the youth could not keep it up. O’Neill had picked up his baseball in the rough-and-ready school of the independent and minor league teams, and he thought little of college pitchers, as a rule. Merriwell he considered in the class of the best college pitchers. Of course he was forced to admit that some college twirlers panned out well, for he knew what Clarkson, Matthewson, and others had done; but he thought them exceptions, and he believed Merriwell would be playing in one of the big leagues if he was fast enough. Still O’Neill’s pride had been touched, and he felt a desire to demonstrate that he, too, could strike out three men in succession, if he desired. This desire led him to begin the second inning with the determination to do his handsomest. Bart Hodge was the first man to face him. Hodge had a grim face and businesslike air. O’Neill handed him a high inshoot. Bart struck and missed. “That’s the woods!” cried Wiley. “Whisker cutters for him. He never finds ’em.” Following this two balls were called. Then O’Neill caught Bart on a drop. Hodge seemed anxious, so the pitcher tried to pull him on a wide outcurve. Bart let it pass. “Three balls!” declared the umpire. “Oh, you vill haf to got der plate ofer der pall, Misder Bitcher!” cried Hans Dunnerwurst from the bench. O’Neill decided on a fast rise past the batter’s shoulders, and his control was perfect. Nevertheless Bart met the ball fairly, giving it a fearful crack. O’Neill muttered an exclamation of chagrin. Out on a line went the ball. Wiley made a wild leap into the air, but he could not reach it by two feet, at least. “That’s the high sign!” cried the sailor. “My arm was too short. I’ll have to use my patent arm-stretching attachment to get those.” “The fielders will have to use their leg-stretching attachment to get them,” laughed Dade Morgan, as he ran down to the coaching line. “Take second, Bart!” Hodge obeyed, easily reaching second base before the ball could be fielded into the diamond.