“Oh, dear, partner, let up on that!” exclaimed the Texan, really confused. “You know you can pitch ball without any old catcher at all behind the pan.”
“Yes, I can pitch, but I can’t win games, Brad. To win games I need the backing of the whole team, and the man I depend on most is the man behind the bat.”
At the tinkle of his alarm clock Mike Lynch awoke, opened one eye, squinted at the clock, and growled like a flea-bitten dog.
“Rot it!” he muttered. “I haven’t had thirty minutes’ decent sleep all night long. Whew! whew! I can taste smoke clean down to my toes. Got a bump as big as half a watermelon here on the side of my head, and the cords of my neck are stiff and sore. All I’ve done is dream fire, fire, and twist and snort and make up and try to go to sleep again. Dash it all, I must look like a wreck! I feel like one, anyhow.”
Making an attempt to sit up, he dropped back with a doleful groan.
“Jingoes, but that does pull on my neck!” he murmured, holding his head canted to one side. “What makes my neck so lame? I suppose I know. That whelp Merriwell chucked me headlong against the wall in the basement of that old warehouse. Wonder I didn’t spill my brains all over that wall. Next thing I knew I was getting scorched and everything around me seemed on fire. That brought me to my senses in a hurry, but when I tried to find the way out I was so bewildered that I didn’t know what to do. How did I get out, anyhow? Oh, yes, somebody came back and grabbed me and dragged me toward the door. Somebody—it was Merriwell! That’s right, by Jove, it was Merriwell! The rest of the fellows were gone. They had sneaked and left me, the cowards! They left me to roast in that fire trap. That’s a fine bunch of friends to have!”
He finally succeeded in sitting up, holding both hands to his head as he groaned and cursed in mingled pain and anger.
“That was just about the worst night I ever experienced. And to think I might have roasted only for Merriwell! Hang it all! I hate to know I owe him anything. Do I owe him anything? Why, of course not. Didn’t he chuck me against the wall and knock me senseless? Gee! I wouldn’t like to tell anybody that he did, but that’s what happened. I suppose some of those sneaks who skipped and left me will tell. No, they won’t. They don’t dare. They’ll keep their faces closed. But Merriwell’s friends—those who were with him—they’ll tell. Let ’em! let ’em! They don’t know who it was rigged up in those devil togs. Anyhow, if they do suspect, they can’t prove it. I won’t acknowledge it, you bet your sweet life!