“It’s got to be cursed important!” he snapped, looking the stranger over. “I don’t know you. What’s your name?”
“Anton Mescal.”
“Never heard it before. Are you one of these blooming old grads who are overrunning the town?”
“No.”
“Then what in blazes——”
A group of men came out of the hotel and descended the steps. They had gray hair about their temples, and some of them were bald beneath their hats. They carried canes, their faces were flushed, and they looked hilariously happy. They were a group of “old grads,” and they had been celebrating Yale’s victory. With them the celebration had just begun; it would extend all through the night. As they rolled down the steps, clinging to one another’s arms, they were talking excitedly:
“He’s the greatest pitcher Yale ever produced!” asserted one.
“Come off, Smithy, old man!” cried another. “You know the class of ’Umpty-six had the champ. This fellow——”
“Don’t talk, Sluthers!” interrupted another. “Baseball was different then. Whoever heard of curves? This Merriwell——”
“Is a marvel!”