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had never heard of Merriwell, and they regarded him with no little interest as he walked into the box. When the Yale spectators were through cheering Harvard took it up in a derisive way, and it certainly was enough to rattle any fellow with ordinary nerves.

      But Frank did not seem to hear all the howling. He paid no attention to the cheers of his friends or the jeers of the other party. He seemed in no great hurry. He made sure that every man was in position, felt of the pitcher's plate with his foot, kicked aside a small pebble, and then took any amount of time in preparing to deliver.

      Collingwood began to show some interest. He punched Pierson in the ribs with his elbow and observed:

      "Hanged if he acts as if he is badly rattled!"

      "That's so. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry," admitted Paul. "He is using his head at the very start, for he is giving himself time to become cool and steady."

      "He has Gibson, the best batter on the Harvard team, facing him. Gibson is bound to get a safe hit."

      "He is pretty sure to, and that is right."

      Merriwell knew that Nort Gibson was the heaviest and surest batter on the Harvard team, but he had been watching the fellow all through the game, trying to "get his alley." He had seen Gibson light on a drop and smash it fiercely, and then he had seen him get a safe hit off a rise, while an outcurve did not fool him at all, as he would bang it if it came over the plate or let it alone when it went outside.

      Frank's mind was made up, and he had resolved to give Gibson everything in close to his fingers. Then, if he did hit it, he was not liable to knock it very far.

      The first ball Merriwell delivered looked like a pretty one, and Gibson went after it. It was an inshoot, and the batter afterward declared it grazed his knuckles as it passed.

      "One strike!" called the umpire.

      "What's this! what's this!" exclaimed Collingwood, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "What did he do, anyway?"

      "Fooled the batter with a high inshoot," replied Pierson.

      "Well, he doesn't seem to be so very rattled after all."

      "Can't tell yet. He did all right that time, but Gibson has two more chances. If he gets a drop or an outcurve that is within reach, he will kill it."

      Ben Halliday was catching for Yale. Rattleton, the change catcher and first baseman, was laid off with a bad finger. He was rooting with the New Haven gang.

      Halliday returned the ball and signaled for a rise, but Merriwell shook his head and took a position that meant that he wished to try the same thing over again. Halliday accepted, and then Frank sent the ball like a shot.

      This time it seemed a certain thing that Frank had depended on a high straight ball, and Gibson could not let it pass. He came near breaking his back trying to start the cover on the ball, but once more he fanned the air.

      "Great Jupiter!" gasped Collingwood, who was now aroused. "What did he do then, Pierson?"

      "Fooled the fellow on the same thing exactly!" chuckled Paul. "Gibson wasn't looking for two in the same place."

      Now the freshmen spectators from Yale let themselves out. They couldn't wait for the third strike, but they cheered, blew horns and whistles, and waved flags and hats.

      Merriwell had a trick of taking up lots of time in a busy way without pitching the ball while the excitement was too high, and his appearance seemed to indicate that he was totally deaf to all the tumult.

      "That's right, Merry, old boy!" yelled an enthusiastic New Haven lad. "Trim his whiskers with them."

      "Wind them around his neck, Frank!" cried Harry Rattleton. "You can do it!"

      Rattleton had the utmost confidence in his chum, and he had offered to bet that not one of the first three men up would get a safe hit off him. Sport Harris, who was always looking for a chance to risk something, promptly took Harry up, and each placed a "sawbuck" in the hands of Deacon Dunning.

      "I am sorry for you, Harris," laughed Rattleton after Gibson had missed the second time, "but he's going to use them all that way."

      "Wait, my boy," returned Sport, coolly. "I am inclined to think this man will get a hit yet."

      "I'll go you ten to five he doesn't."

      "Done!"

      They had no time to put up the money, for Merriwell was at work again, and they were eager to watch him.

      The very next ball was an outcurve, but it was beyond Gibson's reach and he calmly let it pass. Then followed a straight one that was on the level with the top of the batter's head, and Gibson afterward expressed regret that he did not try it. The third one was low and close to Gibson's knees.

      Three balls had been called in succession, and the next one settled the matter, for it stood three to two.

      "Has he gone to pieces?" anxiously asked Collingwood.

      "I don't think so," answered Pierson, "but he has wasted good opportunities trying to pull Gibson. He is in a bad place now."

      "You have him in a hole, Gibson," cried a voice. "The next one must be right over, and he can't put it there."

      "It looks as if you would win, Rattleton," said Harris in mild disgust. "Merriwell is going to give the batter his base, and so, of course, he will not get a hit."

      Harry was nettled, and quick as a flash returned:

      "Four balls hits for a go—I mean goes for a hit in this case."

      Harris laughed.

      "Now I have you sure," he chuckled.

      "In your mind, Sport, old boy."

      Merriwell seemed to be examining the pitcher's plate, then he looked up like a flash, his eyes seeming to sparkle, and with wonderful quickness delivered the ball.

      "It's an outcurve," was the thought which flashed through Gibson's mind as he saw the sphere had been started almost directly at him.

      If it was an outcurve it seemed certain to pass over the center of the plate, and it would not do to let it pass. It was speedy, and the batter was forced to make up his mind in a fraction of a second.

      He struck at it—and missed!

      "Three strikes—batter out!" called the umpire, sharply.

      Gibson dropped his stick in a dazed way, muttering:

      "Great Scott! it was a straight ball and close to my fingers!"

      He might have shouted the words and not been heard, for the Yale rooters were getting in their work for fair. They gave one great roar of delight, and then came the college yell, followed by the freshman cheer. At last they were given an opportunity to use their lungs, after having been comparatively silent for several innings.

      "Whoop 'er up for 'Umpty-eight!" howled a fellow with a heavy voice. "What's the matter with 'Umpty-eight?"

      "She's all right!" went up the hoarse roar.

      "What's the matter with Merriwell?"

      "He's all right!" again came that roar.

      When the shouting had subsided, Rattleton touched Harris on the shoulder and laughingly asked:

      "Do I win?"

      "Not yet. There are two more coming."

      "But I win just as hard, my boy."

      "Hope you do."

      The next Harvard batter came up, determined to do something, although he was a trifle uncertain. He let the first one pass and heard a strike called, which did not please him much. The second one was a coaxer, and he let that ball go by. The umpire called a ball. The third was a high one, but it looked good, and he tried for it. It proved to be a rise, and he struck under it at least a foot.

      Bob Collingwood was growing enthusiastic.

      "That

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