“Merriwell’s men must be good batters,” said Frost. “They’ve made three handsome hits off O’Neill. Nobody seemed to think they could do much with him.” “O’Neill hasn’t settled down,” declared Manton. “After he does he’ll keep them from hitting.” “Here goes Merriwell into the box for the second time,” said Necker. “Now watch. I hope they find him.” Captain Hurley was the first batter to face Frank in the second inning. He was resolved to set an example for his men to follow. Being a new hitter, he felt confident that Merry would find trouble in fooling him. Frank knew Hurley’s reputation, and he took no chances. The first ball pitched was the new curve, and it swept over the inside corner of the plate. Hurley fouled it lightly, but the ball landed in Hodge’s mitt and remained there. Then Frank pitched two that seemed very wild. Hurley wondered if he had lost control. He was wondering when another of those queer corner cutters came over the outside edge and he struck at it. “Two strikes!” cried the umpire, as the ball spanked into Bart’s big mitt. “Ye gods and little fishhooks!” moaned Cap’n Wiley, resting his head on his hands. “Is our noble leader going the way of dew before the morning sunshine? Will he likewise evaporate and fade away? Such a calamity would be too excruciating to endure.” Hurley was puzzled. He could not understand why he had missed the ball, but he realized that he had not fathomed the curve Frank was using. “I’ll get the next one!” he vowed. Frank tried the inside corner, and for the third time Hurley missed. “You’re out!” declared the umpire. The captain of the Outcasts looked very much chagrined as he retired to the bench. “What’s the matter?” asked Crackson Swatt. “Is the whole bunch hypnotized?” “Something is the matter for a fact,” admitted Hurley. “Try to bunt it, Swatt. We’ve got to find a way to get our bats against the ball.” The entire team had great confidence in Swatt. At the beginning of their career the Outcasts had batted with Swatt in the eighth position, like most professional teams; but his stick work had been so good that it was found advisable to move him up directly behind Hurley. “Do project the ball somewhere, Swattsie!” implored Cap’n Wiley. “This continued agitation of the atmosphere without visible results is a weariness to the flesh. It will retire me to the bughouse before long.” Although four of his companions, all good batters, had failed to get a hit off Frank, Swatt was confident. “He can’t fool me,” he told himself. “I’ll hit it somewhere.” The first ball pitched by Merry passed behind Crackson’s back, which caused him to laugh. “Keep spitting on it,” he said, “and you’ll throw it over the grand stand before the game is ended. You can’t control it. Better stop wetting it and pitch your usual way.” “Thank you for the advice,” smiled Merry. “If I throw it over the grand stand I may decide to follow your kind suggestion.” But he kept on wetting the ball.