Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Support; Or, A Triple Play онлайн

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“Pretty, Dick—pretty,” smiled Frank.

Dick laughed.

“It burned my hands,” he admitted; “but it felt good.”

From the moment Frank heard Dick say that that hot ball burned his hands and yet felt good, he never had a doubt concerning the ability of the lad to make a ball-player. The ball-player who is valuable likes the feeling of a ball that comes hot into his clutch, and he is not afraid of being hurt. The moment a man becomes afraid of being hurt he begins to go down-hill as a player, and he is liable to become utterly useless.

Skew was confident when he came up to the plate.

“It was an accident,” he said. “Everybody can hit Merriwell. I’ll get a hit.”

Frank tried to work him, but Skew had a good eye for the ball, and Merry was forced to put it over. Then the batter hit the sphere hard, and it went spinning along the ground just inside the third-base line.

Ready jumped, flung himself forward, thrust down his right hand, and got the ball. It was a marvelous stop, but Jack dropped on one knee in his effort, and Skew was running like the wind to first.