CHAPTER XXIX.
THE FINISH.
Wopsy Bill Brown had better luck to start with. Buckhart hit the ball hard, it is true, but the sailing sphere was gathered in by an outfielder, and Crowfoot lodged on third.
Dick likewise banged the horsehide far into the outfield, but again it was caught, which retired the youngsters after they had made six runs.
The Outlaws went to bat determined to change the aspect of affairs in a hurry. Imagine their astonishment when Merriwell smilingly mowed down three men in quick order.
Up to the beginning of the seventh inning Wopsy Bill held the collegians successfully, although twice the youngsters pushed a runner round to third. The Outlaws fought savagely, trying in various ways to frighten their opponents, but failing utterly.
The seventh opened with Buckhart at bat, and he led off with a smash that netted three sacks.
Dick hit safely a moment later, scoring Brad. Lozier bunted and died at first, while Dick took second.
Old Greg McGregor showed his mettle by drawing a two-sacker that gave the youngsters still another tally. Merriwell kept his eyes on Stover as he crossed third, and Buzzsaw did not dare try any dirty tricks.
When Duncan Ross followed with a hit, Bob Harrison went into the air and yanked Wopsy off the plate.
Strawberry Lane, the only remaining pitcher of the Outlaws, went in to stem the tide.
“Too late! too late!” came the cry from the crowd. “They’ve got the game now.”
Like Brown, Lane succeeded in checking the run getting for the time being, striking out Tucker and forcing Arlington to lift an easy fly.
In the last of the seventh the Outlaws obtained their one and only tally. Stover struck out to begin with and retired to the bench, his heart bitter with hatred for Dick Merriwell.
McLoon, coming next, hit along the third-base line, and the ball caromed off Lozier’s bare right hand. Nutty ran wild over first, and Lozier, trying to get him at second, caught the ball up swiftly and made a bad throw.
Over third McLoon sped, and McGregor, who had tried to back up second, completed the unfortunate series of errors by throwing wide to the plate.
“Now,” snarled Buzzsaw Stover, “let’s keep right at it and make a hundred.”
A few moments later, Merriwell had cut down Smiling Joe Brinkley and Gentle Willie Touch, and Buzzsaw went to third sore as a flea-bitten cur.
In the eighth there came near being a riot when Stover tried to spike Blessed Jones, who had reached third on a single, a sacrifice by Crowfoot, and a steal. The umpire promptly informed the vicious third sacker of the Outlaws that he would be put out of the game if he tried any more such contemptible tricks.
Jones scored on a safety by Buckhart.
Dick hit one into centre field and was out.
Lozier fanned a few seconds later.
There was no further run getting on either side. In the eighth and ninth innings Merriwell was invincible on the slab. Those amazed Outlaws could do nothing whatever with his delivery, and the delighted spectators simply shouted themselves hoarse. Never had Harrison’s stars received such a drubbing, the final score being nine to one against them.
The college lads were congratulated on every hand. Old Joe Crowfoot found young Joe and looked him over approvingly.
“You make heap fair baseball player bimeby, mebbe,” said the old chief. “You learn some, mebbe. Old Joe he clear up good thing to-day. He have money ’nough to-night so you pay two year at Yale school. He reckon he hand-um it over so he no lose it.”
Bob Harrison shouldered his way through the crowd and reached Dick Merriwell.
“Look here,” he called; “look here, young fellow, you certainly was loaded with horseshoes to-day. It was the biggest accident that ever happened. Play us again. Play us to-morrow, and we won’t leave you in the shape of anything. I’ll call off a date with Cheyenne in order to play you.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Harrison,” smiled Dick; “but it will be impossible for us to give you another game. My pick-up team disbands to-night, as business will make it necessary for several of the players to leave the Springs to-morrow.”
“Yah! You’re afraid!” cried Harrison. “You don’t dare play another game.”
“Go ’way back and set down,” grunted old Joe Crowfoot. “He beat-um you any time you play. You have big team of stars? Waugh! No good!”
Then several of the bystanders stepped between Harrison and the old redskin to prevent the exasperated manager from laying violent hands on Shangowah.
That evening Dick and June sat talking in low tones on the hotel veranda.
“Buckhart,” said Dick, “has an uncle on a ranch up North, and we’re going up there. It was a great treat to meet you here, June.”
“It was fine, Dick,” she returned. “Oh, it was just splendid to watch the game to-day! It seemed like old times. We are leaving to-morrow.”
“Going back home?”
“Yes. Chester and I decided that we ought to go right away. I’m sorry we can’t all stay here a little longer, for it has been very pleasant—very pleasant——”
His hand found hers and held it tightly.
“It has been the pleasantest feature of my summer, June,” he declared.
In the shadows he lifted her hand to his lips.
“Till we meet again, June!” he whispered.
“Till we meet again, Dick!”
THE END.
Don’t fail to ask for No: 190 of the Merriwell Series, entitled “Dick Merriwell’s Intuition,” by Burt L. Standish.