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?"