Crackson went after the second one pitched, but he was deceived like the others, missing it cleanly. “Come! come!” cried a man on the bleachers. “I thought you fellows could hit a little. You don’t seem to amount to shucks when you get up against a real pitcher.” Hurley was frowning and watching Merriwell’s movements. He also tried to follow the course of the ball after it left Frank’s hand. Merry made another wild pitch, and the ball got past Hodge. This did no damage, however, as there was no one on the bases. Among the spectators Hobe Manton brightened up a little. “It will come in time,” he said. “Merriwell can’t keep it up. He’s losing control now. What if the Outcasts had happened to have a man on third then? Why, he would have cantered home easily.” “But if they don’t do better they’ll never get a man on first,” said Frost, with an icy sneer. “They’ll get one there pretty soon,” nodded Manton. “They can’t hit Merriwell.” “They won’t have to if he keeps on growing wild. They’ll all walk.” But the next ball pitched looked good to Swatt, and again he swung at it. He missed. “Well, wouldn’t that bump you violently!” cried Wiley, an expression of pain on his swarthy face. “Wait till I trip out there and put the marble over the fence. Then the gaping multitude will rise up and call me blessed.” Swatt had a puzzled look on his heavy face. Like those who had batted before him, he could not understand why he had failed so completely, although he realized that the ball had taken some kind of a freakish shoot. “Make connections there!” yelled Wiley. “What ails you? Have you been smoking dope? Hit it anywhere and pray as you run. Don’t be trying any fancy stunts at placing the ball. I know that old tar in the box, and he can throw everything from a high ball to a fish ball. You won’t make a record trying to place your hits.” Swatt gave Wiley a look. Then he gripped his bat and waited. Again the ball delivered by Frank looked good to him, and again he struck at it. Again he missed. “Boys,” said Hurley, rising to his feet, “that man Merriwell has invented a new curve, and we’ll have to wake up and hustle if we get any safe hits off him to-day.” “And all my labor in teaching this bunch to hit the double-shoot was wasted!” moaned the sailor. “When I think of that it makes my arm wearied and weak. I am fain to confess that Merriwell is too astute for a mortal of common clay.” Crackson Swatt sat down gloomily. “I’ve batted against spit-ball pitchers before; but I’ve never seen one with that kink in his delivery,” he admitted. “You didn’t bunt,” said Hurley. “I tried it once and missed. When I can’t get my bat against a ball that curves fair over the plate the pitcher is a wizard or I have lost my batting eye.” Roden was next, and he attempted a bunt. He was the first to make anything like a success at hitting the ball, but his bunt went into the hands of Ready, who came rushing in for it.