"Oh, perhaps they will give Frank a show after this!" he thought. "Didn't I tell Put, the blooming idiot? It took him a long time to get out of his trance."
Sport Harris coolly puffed away at a black cigar, seemingly perfectly unconcerned, like a born gambler. He had black hair and a faint line of a mustache. He was rather handsome in a way, but he had a pronounced taste for loud neckties.
The next batter to come up was nervous, as could be seen at a glance. He did not wish to strike out, but he was far too eager to hit the ball, and he went after a bad one at the very start, which led him to get a mild call down from the bench.
Then the fellow let a good one pass, which rattled him worse than ever. The next looked good and he swung at it.
He hit it, and it went up into the air, dropping into Merriwell's hands, who did not have to step out of his tracks to get it.
Yale had whitewashed Harvard for the first time in that game.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE GAME GROWS HOTTER.
By the noise the Yale crowd made one might have fancied the game was theirs beyond a doubt.