And all realized that this was true—the score was altogether too close for comfort—considering the heavy games still to be played.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MORE BASEBALL TALK.
“Poor old Yale!” said Ben Halliday, mournfully.
“Poor old Yale!” echoed Dismal Jones, with something like a sob.
“Oh, what’s the use of squealing before we know whether we are hurt or not?” cried Puss Parker. “Old Eli has a way of coming out on top at the last moment.”
“It’s a mighty slim show she has now,” said Pink Pooler, and it almost seemed that there was something like satisfaction in his voice. “If she can’t do better than beat little Williams by one score, what can she do against Princeton? Nat Finch is one of the finest amateur pitchers in this country, and he will make monkeys of Yale’s ordinary batters, while our best men will stand a poor show against him.”
“How did Princeton get hold of such a fellow?” asked Halliday.
“I don’t know, but I am willing to bet something that his tuition does not cost him anything.”
“If we could prove that we could end his career as a pitcher in the college league,” said Halliday.