Chapter XXX: One to Nothing

It was the beginning of the ninth inning, and neither side had scored. Never before had there been such an exciting game in the city of Denver. The crowd was throbbing, and Merriwell’s team had won a host of friends by its clever work. Since the second inning, however, Frank had given his men no chance to show what they could do, for he had struck out man after man, just as fast as they came up. Never in all his life had he been in better form, and his work was something to amaze his most intimate friends.

Bart Hodge, with his arm paining him from the tip of his fingers to the shoulder, looked very well satisfied.

Dick Merriwell was wild with delight and admiration. He heard the crowd wondering at the work of Frank and cheering at it, and it warmed his heart toward the brother he had once thought he hated.

“Oh, Joe!” he panted, “did you ever see anything like it?”

“Ugh! No see before,” answered Crowfoot, still smoking.

“Isn’t it fine?”

“Heap big noise. Ev’rybody yell lot; nobody get killed yet.”

Three times had Merriwell’s men reached third, but, by sharp work, the home team had kept them from scoring. Now, however, Morley was desperate, and he went among the men, urging them to win the game.

“You must win it!” he said. “Elrich loses five thousand and five hundred dollars if you don’t. He won’t back the team another day. We’ll have to disband.”

“We’d win if we could hit that devil in the box,” said Mahoney bitterly. “He’s the worst man we ever went up against, and we all know it now. You’ll never hear me tell anybody after this that there is no such thing as a double-shoot. Why, that fellow can throw regular corkscrew curves!”

Morley swore.

“You’re quitting!” he growled.

“Did you ever know me to quit?” asked Mahoney angrily.

“No, but----”

“Then don’t talk! They have not scored, and we may be able to make this a draw game, if we can’t get in a run.”

Black Elrich was worried, although his face looked perfectly calm, with the strained expression of the gambler who is unchangeable before victory or defeat. At his side, Dan Mahoney was seething.

“Hang it!” he grated. “If it had only been that catcher’s right hand! The woman made a terrible blunder!”

“No one would have thought him able to catch, anyhow,” said Elrich.

“The big mitt protects his hand.”

“Still, it must hurt him every time the ball strikes, for Merriwell has been using all kinds of speed.”

Morley came up to the place where he knew Elrich was sitting.

“What do you think?” he asked, in a low tone. “The boys can’t hit Merriwell, and it’s too late to try to buy Harris, the umpire, now. Can’t you start a riot and break up the game?”

“If you start it, it is worth a hundred dollars to you,” said Elrich, “even though that will throw all bets off, and I’ll make nothing. What say?”

“I can’t!” muttered Morley. “If I did so, Harris would give the game to the other side, and you’d lose just the same. If the spectators start it, it will be all right.”

“The spectators won’t,” said the gambler. “More than three-fourths of them are Merriwell men now.”

“Then,” said Morley, “I am afraid for the result.”

Well might he be afraid. In the last inning Frank was just as effective as ever, and the batters fell before him in a way that was perfectly heart-breaking to the admirers of the home team. Denver was unable to score in the ninth.

“We must shut them out again, boys,” said Mahoney, as his men took the field.

But Merriwell’s team went after that game in their half of the ninth. Carker was the first man up. He had not been hitting, and Park considered him easy. That was when Park made a mistake, for Greg set his teeth and laced out the first ball in a most terrific manner.

It was a clean two-bagger. But Carker tried to make it three, encouraged by Ready on the coaching-line. Ready believed in taking desperate chances to score, and he waved for Greg to come on.

The crowd was standing again, shouting wildly as Carker tore across second and started on a mad sprint to third.

The center-fielder got the ball and threw it to Mahoney at second. Mahoney whirled and shot it to third.

“Slide!” shrieked Ready.

Greg heard the command and obeyed, but Croaker took the ball and touched him easily.

“Runner out!” decided the umpire clearly.

Then there was another roar from the bleachers.

Jack Ready fiercely doubled his fist and thumped himself behind the ear.

“All my fault!” he moaned. “I did it!”

Carker looked sorrowful.

“My last game of baseball,” he said sadly. “I do not care to play the game any more. It is a deception and a humiliation. No more! No more!”

Merriwell was the next batter. Park knew Merry was a good hitter, and he was cautious. Frank did his best to work the pitcher for a base on balls, but, with two strikes called on him, he was finally forced to hit.

He did so sharply, sending the ball shooting along the ground between third and short.

Frank crossed first and turned to the left, knowing it was best to have all the start he could if there was any show of making second.

“Go on!” roared Browning, who had reached the coaching-line at first, Ready, having come in from near third.

Then Frank ran at his best speed. He knew it would be close, and he flung himself forward for a slide at second, which enabled him to reach the base safely a moment ahead of the ball. By fast running, he had made a two-bagger out of an ordinary single.

Everybody knew now that Merriwell’s team was out for the game in that inning if there was any possible way to capture it. Such work turned the fans into howling maniacs.

For once in his life, Jack Ready looked grave when he took his place to strike. He realized the responsibility on him, and it had driven the smile from his ruddy face.

Park was pitching at his best, and he did not let up a bit. Ready made two fouls, after which he put up a high infield fly, which dropped and remained in the hands of Croaker. Two men were out, and the admirers of the home team began to breathe easier.

Merriwell was taking all the start he could get from second when Carson got ready to hit.

Park seemed to feel absolutely sure of retiring the side without further trouble, and he did get two strikes on Berlin. Then something happened, for the cattleman’s son did a thing to delight the heart of his father. He made a beautiful safe hit to right field and won the game.

Merriwell was running when the ball and bat met. He knew it was not a high fly, and instinct told him the fielder could not catch it. As he came toward third, Hodge was on the coaching-line, madly motioning for him to go in.

Frank obeyed. The fielder threw from right to cut him off at the plate, but, by another splendid slide, he scored.

The game was over.

* * * * *

In the newspaper accounts of the game the following day Merriwell’s team was highly praised, and the reporters took pains to mention that it was the hit of Berlin Carson, a Colorado lad, that brought in the winning run.

THE END.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber for the reader’s
convenience and is granted to the public domain.