“But it can’t be proved,” said Pooler, quickly, “and so Princeton has us by the neck.”
“I wouldn’t bet that way if I could get odds,” grunted Bruce Browning, as he came loafing up to the fence on the Yale campus, where the little knot of lads were holding the earnest discussion. “Princeton is not so many, and Finch is not the only shirt in the laundry. He can be done up.”
“He’ll never be done up by Yale,” declared Pooler, lighting a cigarette.
“Look here, man!” cried Ben Halliday, turning sharply on Pink, “what is the matter with you? You talk as if anxious for Princeton to beat Yale.”
“That’s so,” nodded Jones, giving Pooler a sour look.
“You ought to know better than that,” said Pink, protestingly; “but I have got eyes, and I do know something about baseball. When Yale has a struggle to beat little Williams in a practice game, she is not going to stand much of a show in the college league.”
Browning grunted.
“Huah! Yale has a way of starting out weak at the beginning of the season and making a rattling finish. You forget that, Pooler.”
“No, but that does not happen every time.”
“Pretty near it.”