Merriwell was right.  Coulter sent one over the inside corner, using a straight ball.  Still Merriwell did not offer at it, for he could not have placed it in the right field if he had tried.

“One strike!” called the umpire.

Although he seemed quite unconcerned, Sport Harris had been nettled when Rattleton won the ten-dollar bet, and he now said: 

“I will go you even money, Rattleton, that Merriwell does not get a hit.  If he goes down on four balls the bet is off.”

“I’ll stand you,” nodded Harry, laughingly.  “Why, Harris, I never dreamed you were such an easy mark!  Merriwell is bound to get a hit.”

“Ha! ha!” mocked Harris.  “Is that so?  And he just let a good one pass without wiggling his bat!”

“It wasn’t where he wanted it.”

“And Coulter will not give him one where he wants it.”

“Coulter doesn’t know anything about Merriwell’s batting, and so he is liable to make a break at any moment.”

This proved right, for Coulter tried to fool Frank with an outcurve on the next delivery.  He started the ball exactly as he had the one before it, to all appearances as if he meant to send another straight one over the inside corner.  He believed Merriwell would bite at it, and he was right.

But right there Coulter received a shock, for Merriwell leaned forward as he swung, assuming such a position that the ball must have hit him if it had been a straight one.  It had a sharp, wide curve, and passed at least ten inches beyond the plate.

Passed?  Not much!  Merriwell hit it, and sent a “daisy cutter” down into right field, exactly where he wished to place it.

Down on the coach line near first little Danny Griswold had convulsions.  He whooped like a wild Indian.

“Spring, ye snails!  Tear up the dust, ye sons of Eli!  Two—­make it two, Blos, old boy!  Why, this game is easy now!  We’ve just got started!  Whoop!  Whoopee!”

In going over second Blossom tripped and fell heavily.  When he scrambled to his feet he was somewhat dazed, and it was too late for him to try for third.  He saw Halliday down by third motioning wildly for him to get back and hold second, but there was such a roar of voices that he could not hear a word the coachers were saying.  However, the signals were enough, and he got back.

Now the “Sons of Eli” were all on their feet, and they were making the air quiver.  It was enough to inspire any man to do or die, and it is doubtful if there was not a man on the Yale team who did not feel at that moment that he was willing to lay down his life, if necessary, to win that game.

When the shouting had subsided in a measure, Rattleton was heard to shout from his perch on the shoulders of a companion, to which position he had shinned in his excitement: 

“Right here is where we trick our little do, gentlemen—­er—­I mean we do our little trick.  Ready to the air of ‘Oh, Give Us a Drink, Bartender.’  Let her go!”