He squirmed as he heard Burn Putnam—­familiarly called Old Put—­the manager of the team, compliment Merriwell on his skillful work.

“I fancy I’ll be able to use you more than I thought I should at first, Merriwell,” said Putnam.  “We can tell more about that in the future.”

“I’ve got to strike that fellow out,” thought Gordon as he went into the box.

But he did not.  Merriwell came first to bat in the second inning, and he sent a safe single into right field, deliberately placing it, as was evident to every ball player present.

Gordon turned green with anger, and then he became nervous.  To add to his nervousness, Merriwell obtained a lead from first and stole second on his delivery, getting it easily.

But that was not the end of Gordon’s woes, for Merriwell seemed in a reckless mood, and he made for third on the next pitch, getting it on a beautiful slide, although the catcher made an attempt to throw him out.

The catcher came down scowling, and Gordon went to meet him, asking as he did so: 

“What’s the matter with you?  You ought to have stopped him at second and held him there.”

“I ought to have stopped him!” came derisively from the disgusted backstop.  “I came down to ask you if this was the way you were going to pitch in a regular game.  Why, that fellow is getting a long start on your delivery, and he does it every time.  You’ve got to stop that kind of business.”

For some moments they talked, and then Gordon sulkily walked back to the box.  He tried to catch Frank playing off third, but simply wasted time.  Then he made a snap delivery and hit the batter, who went down to first.

By this time Gordon was rattled, and he sent the next ball over the heart of the plate.  The batter nailed it for two bags, and two men came home.

Gordon walked out of the box and up to the bench where Old Put was sitting.

“I am sick,” he declared.

He looked as if he spoke the truth.

“I thought something was the matter with you,” said the manager.  “You’re white as a sheet.  It’s folly for you to practice while you are in this condition.”

Gordon put on his sweater and then drew his coat over that.  He wandered off by himself and sat down.

“Hang that fellow Merriwell!” he whispered to himself.  “I never thought he would bother me so much.  I am beginning to hate him.  He is too cool and easy to suit me.”

The practice was continued, and Merriwell showed up finely, so that Old Put was pleased.

The sophomores quit trying to have sport with the freshmen, as it happened that two of the professors had wandered into the park and were looking on from a distance.

Browning saw them.

“Why are they out here?” he snapped.  “Never knew ’em to come before.  I won’t even get a chance to talk to Merriwell.”

“Better keep away from him this afternoon,” cautioned Hartwick.  “He can’t escape you, and there is plenty of time.”