“Poor old Yale!” exclaimed Halliday, for the second time.
“Poor old Yale!” again echoed Dismal Jones.
“Now,” said Pooler, “it is a sure thing that Yale does not stand a show in baseball this season.”
Bruce Browning turned savagely upon Pink—so savagely that Pooler was startled.
“You make me sick!” growled the big fellow. “You’re always croaking! You have been stuck good and hard betting against Yale, and I hope you’ll be stuck again if you bet against her this year!”
“That’s all right,” said Pooler, sullenly. “I have a right to my convictions. I’d like to see Yale win as well as anybody, but my good judgment tells me she can’t win.”
“Your good judgment is not worth a hoot! It has told you she could not win before, but she has won just the same.”
“Perhaps it’s not so bad,” said Parker. “Why, Hardy is in the pink of condition. Why should any doctor forbid his playing?”
“He’s been having queer spells lately whenever he’s got excited and worked hard,” said Halliday. “In the Williams game, you know, he fell limp as a rag in Jeffers’ arms after making a hot run for two bases. It didn’t seem that he’d be able to get his breath again. They fanned him and turned water on him till they came near drowning him.”
“That was the first time I ever saw anything out of the way with the fellow.”