It was a scorching hot grounder, but, with an electrified sidelong leap, Tommy Tucker forked the sizzling ball with his bare right hand. Tucker was whirled round in his tracks with a toplike motion, but managed to keep his feet, recovered, and sent the ball across to Lynch.
It was a bad throw, and Mike was compelled to leap high into the air to get the ball. He got it, however, and down upon the sack he dropped, just in time to secure a put-out.
“More horseshoes!” yelled Marone. “Whose hunch did you rub, old man?” This question was directed at Lynch, who retorted with a satisfied grin, but made no answer in words.
Hanley looked dangerous as he squared himself at the plate, poising his bat over his shoulder. He was a big fellow, and he wielded a heavy club. He had a reputation as a hard hitter.
Kates was afraid of this man, and, in working desperately to prevent Hanley from hitting, Sam got himself into a bad hole. One strike and three balls were called.
“Make ’em be good!” cried Marone. “He can’t put it over!”
After glancing toward the bench, on which sat Merriwell, Kates steadied himself, and carefully sent over a swift, straight ball. Hanley let it pass, and the second strike was called.
“That’s the talk, Sammy,” chirped Tucker encouragingly. “Now he’s got to hit. Make him do it. Don’t let him walk.”
Sam wisely decided to depend on his backing, and quickly whistled over another straight one.
Hanley smashed it far into the field, but, after an astonishing run, Captain Jones smothered the ball and held it.
“Well, what do you think of that?” asked Mel Dagett, who was sitting on the bleachers, between Toleman and Poland. “That’s a good start for us, isn’t it? We ought to be cheering with the rest of the bunch.”
“It was luck—nothing more,” said Poland. “I don’t wonder Marone is howling ‘horseshoes.’”
“With that kind of backing, Kates may be able to hold the score down, don’t you think?” questioned Bern Wolfe, at Toleman’s elbow.
“Never,” answered Bill promptly. “Those Manhattan fellows are not going to bat the ball right at somebody every time they hit it. Notice every man did hit it. Kates never can win this game in the world.”
“Between us four,” said Poland, in a low tone, “I don’t believe Merriwell’s shoulder is as lame as he pretends it is. He’s afraid of Manhattan, that’s what’s the matter. That was quite a fine and fancy story about the holdup, but it sounded too fancy for me to believe.”