Bob’s first waking thought was that he must be back on the rocky shores of Maine, where he had spent the past summer. Surely those were breakers which roared and thundered in his ears. Then he opened his eyes, and found that he was lying on the sod, a sweater under his head, and several vaguely familiar faces swimming above him.
A moment later he knew that it was not surf, but the wild yelling and cheering of excited, enthusiastic thousands. Back and forth rolled the mighty torrents of sound, breaking and crashing in reverberations.
Suddenly there was a pause, and then a fresh outburst, this time deliberate and controlled:
“Rah, rah rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Hollister! Hollister! Hollister!”
No need to tell him in so many words that the ball had gone over. This was enough. They were cheering for him, and, as he opened his eyes again, something like a mist came over them. Presently this cleared away, and he found himself looking into Merriwell’s face.
“How are you feeling, old fellow?” the senior asked anxiously. “Hurt any place? Or is it just wind you want?”
Hollister smiled.
“That’s all,” he said quickly. “Be all right in a minute.”
He hesitated for an instant.
“Say, Dick.”