Rattleton had vainly endeavored to get upon the regular team.  He had played pretty fast ball on a country nine, but he was somewhat out of practice and he had not made a first-class showing, so he had failed in his ambition.

He went into catch for Merriwell, and they had arranged a code of signals beforehand, so that they were all prepared.

There was no affectation about Frank’s delivery, but the first man on the list of the regulars found Merriwell’s slow drop was a hard ball to hit.  He went after two of them before he saw what he was getting.  Then he made up his mind that he would get under the next one and knock the peeling off it.

He got under it all right, for instead of being a drop it was a rise, and the batter struck at least eighteen inches below it.

“Well, say,” laughed Gordon, who had been placed second on the list at his own request.  “I’ll go you something he doesn’t work that on me.”

He was full of confidence when he walked up to the plate.  The watching sophomores were doing their best to rattle Merriwell, and it seemed that he must soon get nervous, even though he did not seem to hear any of the jolly that was being flung at him.

The very first ball seemed to be just where Gordon wanted it, and he swung at it with all his strength.  It twisted in toward him and passed within two inches of his fingers.

Gordon looked mildly surprised, but he was still confident that he would be able to hit the next one with ease.  He found out his mistake later on when he went after an out drop and failed to come within six inches of it.

Then it was Gordon who grew nervous.  He did not fancy the idea of being fanned out by his rival, and he felt that he must make connections with the next one.  He resolved to wait for a good one, and Frank fooled him by putting two straight ones right over the center of the plate.  Gordon felt sure that both would be curves, and so he offered at neither of them.  The umpire, however, who was a particular friend of Gordon, called them both balls.  Then Gordon went after the next ball, which was a raise, but found nothing but empty air.

The third man was easy, and he fanned, also, making three in succession.

Parker punched Browning in the ribs.

“Say,” he observed, “I’ll go you two to one that Merriwell is on the ’Varsity team before the end of next season.”

“If he is alive he may be,” returned the king, grimly.

Our hero’s pitching was a surprise to his friends, for until that day he had not seemed to let himself out.  Even then he did not appear to be doing his best work, and one who watched him in a friendly way fancied he might do still better if forced to make the effort.

Walter Gordon was filled with disgust and dismay.

“He’s having great luck,” muttered Gordon.  “Why, I don’t see how I missed a ball I struck at.  Every one was a dead easy thing, and I should have killed any of them.”