"You think so, but it is all guesswork. I might have struck out."
"You might, but you wouldn't. Oh, merry thunder! To think that a little single would have tied that game, and we couldn't get it! It actually makes me ill at the pit of my stomach!"
The expression on Harry's face seemed to indicate that he told the truth, for he certainly looked ill.
"Don't take it to heart so, my boy," said Frank. "The poor chaps earned that game, and they ought to have it. We'll win the last one of the series, and that's all we want. Do you want to bury poor old Harvard?"
"You can't bury her so deep that she won't crawl out, and you know that. Those fellows are decidedly soon up at Cambridge, and Yale does well to get all she can from them. You can't tell what will happen next game. They have seen you, and they may have a surprise to spring on us. If we pulled this game off the whole thing would be settled now."
"Don't think for a moment that I underestimate Harvard. She is Yale's greatest rival and is bound to do us when she can.
"We made a good bid for the game to-day, but it wasn't our luck to win, and so we may as well swallow our medicine and keep still."
"It wasn't a case of luck at all," spluttered Harry. "It was sheer bull-headedness, that's what it was! If Put had put you in long before he did the game might have been saved."
"He didn't like to pull Gordon out, you see."
"Well, if he's running this team on sentiment, the sooner he quits the better it will be for the team."