“Three strikes and out!” called the umpire.

Frank had struck out two men, and the Yale crowd could not cheer loud enough to express their delight.

Old Put was delighted beyond measure, but he was keeping pretty still, for he knew what he was sure to hear if Yale did not pull the game out some way.  He knew everybody would be asking him why he did not put Merriwell in the box before.

Lewis Little was hugging himself with satisfaction, while Dismal Jones’ long face actually wore something suggestive of a smile.

Rattleton felt like standing on his head and kicking up his heels with the delight he could not express.

“Oh, perhaps they will give Frank a show after this!” he thought.  “Didn’t I tell Put, the blooming idiot?  It took him a long time to get out of his trance.”

Sport Harris coolly puffed away at a black cigar, seemingly perfectly unconcerned, like a born gambler.  He had black hair and a faint line of a mustache.  He was rather handsome in a way, but he had a pronounced taste for loud neckties.

The next batter to come up was nervous, as could be seen at a glance.  He did not wish to strike out, but he was far too eager to hit the ball, and he went after a bad one at the very start, which led him to get a mild call down from the bench.

Then the fellow let a good one pass, which rattled him worse than ever.  The next looked good and he swung at it.

He hit it, and it went up into the air, dropping into Merriwell’s hands, who did not have to step out of his tracks to get it.

Yale had whitewashed Harvard for the first time in that game.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The game grows hotter.

By the noise the Yale crowd made one might have fancied the game was theirs beyond a doubt.

“Poor fellows!” said one languid Harvardite to an equally languid companion.  “It’s the only chawnce they have had to cheer.  Do let them make a little noise.”

“Yas,” said his companion, “do.  It isn’t at all likely they will get another opportunity during this game.”

There were cheers for Merriwell, but Frank walked to the bench and put on his sweater as if utterly unconscious of the excitement he had created.  His unconcerned manner won fresh admiration for him.

Old Put congratulated Frank as soon as the bench was reached.

“That was great work, Merriwell.  Keep it up!  Keep it up!”

“That kind of work will not win the game as the score stands,” returned Frank.  “Some batting must be done, and there must be some score getting.”

“You are right, and you are the second man up this inning.  See what you can do.”

“If I had known I came so soon I wouldn’t have put on my sweater.”

“Keep it on.  You must not get chilly.  We can’t tell what may happen.  Harder games than this have been pulled out.  They lead us but five scores.”