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third was to be played on neutral ground.

      Yale had won the first game by heavy batting, the final score being twelve to eleven. As the regular 'Varsity nine had likewise won the first of their series with Harvard, the "Sons of Eli" began to think they had a sure thing, and those who came on from New Haven were dead sure in their minds that they would bring back the scalps of the Harvard freshmen. They said over and over that there would be no need of a third game to settle the matter; Yale would settle it in the second.

      Walter Gordon had pitched the whole of the first Harvard game. He had been hammered for thirteen singles, two two-baggers, and a three-bagger, and still Yale had pulled out, which was rather remarkable. But Walter had managed to keep Harvard's hits scattered, while Yale bunched their hits in two innings, which was just enough to give them the winning score.

      It was said that Frank Merriwell was to be given a show in the second game, and a large number of Yale men who were not freshmen had come on to see what he would do. Pierson had been particularly anxious to see Merriwell work, and he had taken a great deal of trouble to come on. The "great and only" Bob Collingwood, of the 'Varsity crew, had accompanied Pierson, and both were much disappointed, not to say disgusted, when Old Put put in Gordon and kept him in the box, despite the fact that he was being freely batted.

      "What's the matter with Putnam?" growled Pierson. "Has he got a grudge against Merriwell, or does he intend to lose this game anyway?"

      "He's asleep," said Collingwood, wearily. "He's stuck on Gordon."

      "He must be thick if he can't see Gordon is rapidly losing his nerve. Why, the fellow is liable to go to pieces at any minute and let those Willies run in a score that will be an absolute disgrace."

      "Go down and talk to him, Pierson."

      "Not much! I am too well known to the Harvard gang. They wouldn't do a thing to me—not a thing!"

      "Then let's get out of here. It makes me sick to hear that Harvard yell. I can't stand it, Pierson."

      "Wait. I want to see Merriwell go into the box, if they will let him at all. That's what I came for."

      "But he can't save the game now. The Yale crowd is not doing any batting. All Harvard has to do is to hold them down, and they scarcely have touched Coulter since the second inning."

      "That's right, but the fellow is easy, Coll. If they ever should get onto him—"

      "How can they? They are not batters."

      Pierson nodded.

      "That is true," he admitted. "They are weak with the stick. Diamond is the only man who seems to know how to go after a ball properly. He is raw, but there is mighty good stuff in that fellow. If he sticks to baseball he will be on the regular team before he finishes his course."

      "I believe Merriwell has shown up well as a batter in practice."

      "He certainly has."

      "Well, I should think Old Put would use him for his hitting, if for nothing else. He is needed."

      "It seems to me that there is a nigger in the woodpile."

      "You think Merriwell is held back for reasons not known?"

      "I do."

      "Say, by jingoes! I am going down and talk to Putnam. If he doesn't give Merriwell a trial he's a chump."

      "Hold on."

      "What for? If I wait it will be too late for Merriwell to go in on the first of the seventh."

      "Perhaps Merriwell may stand on his dignity and refuse to go in at all at this late stage of the game."

      "He wouldn't be to blame if he did, for he can't win out."

      "Something is up. Hello! Merriwell is getting out of his sweater! I believe Putnam is going to send him out!"

      There was a great satisfaction in Pierson's voice. At last it seemed that he would get a chance to see Merriwell work.

      "Somebody ought to go down and rap Putnam on the coco with a big heavy club!" growled Collingwood. "He should have made the change long ago. The Harvard Willies have been piling up something every inning."

      Down on the visitors' bench Merriwell was seen to peel off, while Gordon was talking rather excitedly to Burnham Putnam. It seemed evident by his manner that he was speaking of something that did not please him very much.

      Merriwell was pulled out of his sweater, and then somebody tossed him a practice ball. Little Danny Griswold, the Yale shortstop, put on a catcher's mitt and prepared to catch for Frank.

      Yale was making a last desperate struggle for a score in the sixth inning. With one man out and a man on first, a weak batter came up. If the batter tried to get a hit, it looked like a great opportunity for a double play by Harvard.

      Old Put, who was in uniform, ran down to first, and sent in the coacher, whose place he took on the line. Then he signaled the batter to take one, his signal being obeyed, and it proved to be a ball.

      Put was a great coacher, and now he opened up in a lively way, with Robinson rattling away over by third. Put was not talking simply to rattle the pitcher; he was giving signals at the same time, and he signed for the man on first to go down on the next pitch, at the same time giving the batter the tip to make a fake swing at the ball to bother the catcher.

      This programme was carried out, and it worked, for the runner got second on a slide and a close decision.

      Then the Yale rooters opened their throats, and blue banners fluttered in a bunch over on the bleachers where the New Haven gang was packed together.

      "Yell, you suckers, yell!" cried Dickson, Harvard's first baseman. "It's the only chance you'll get."

      His words were drowned in the tumult and noise.

      Up in the grand stand there was a waving of blue flags and white handkerchiefs, telling that there were not a few of the fair spectators who sympathized with the boys from New Haven.

      Then the man at the bat reached first on a scratch hit and a fumble, and there seemed to be a small rift in the clouds which had lowered over the heads of the Yale freshmen so long.

      But the next man up promptly fouled out, and the clouds seemed to close in again as dark as ever.

      In the meantime Frank was warming up with the aid of Danny Griswold, and Walter Gordon sat on the bench, looking sulky and downcast.

      "Gordon is a regular pig," said one of the freshman players to a companion. "He doesn't know when he has enough."

      "Well, we know we have had enough of him this game," said the other, sourly. "If we had played a rotten fielding game Harvard would have a hundred now."

      "Well, nearly that," grinned the first speaker. "Gordon hasn't struck out a man."

      "And still he is sore because Putnam is going to put Merriwell in! I suppose that is natural, but—Hi, there! look a' that! Great Scott! what sloppy work! Did you see Newton get caught playing off second? Well, that gives me cramps! Come on; he's the last man, and we'll have to go out."

      So, to the delight of the Harvard crowd, Yale was whitewashed again, and there seemed no show for the New Haven boys to win.

      Walter Gordon remained on the bench, and Frank walked down into the box. Then came positive proof of Merriwell's popularity, for the New Haven spectators arose as one man, wildly waving hats and flags, and gave three cheers and a tiger for Frank.

      "That's what kills him!" exclaimed Pierson in disgust. "It is sure to rattle any green man."

      "That's right," yawned Collingwood. "It's plain we have wasted our time in coming here to-day."

      "It looks that way from the road. Why couldn't the blamed chumps keep still, so he could show what he is made of?"

      "It's ten to one he won't be able to find the plate for five minutes. I believe I can see him shaking from here."

      The Harvard

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