There was one who did not shout. It was Pooler. He looked very ill.
“Too bad!” he grated. “Is it possible Merriwell and Hodge are going to be the cause of beating me again! Oh, Merriwell is poison to me! His man, Hodge, started the ball rolling, and he followed it up. Then those Princeton puppies acted like a lot of children! It’s awful!”
He wiped the cold sweat from his face.
“Here’s to good old Yale, drink it down!” sang the rooters.
Finch dallied for time. He wanted to get out of the box, for something told him Yale would keep right on piling up scores while he remained in.
The Princeton captain sent out a new pitcher, and Finch dropped the ball willingly.
The new man pitched a very slow ball. It was a great change from the speed of Finch, and the batter popped up an easy fly to the infield, which retired Yale at last.
But the rooters were jubilant, and the players were hopeful.
“Now, fellows,” said Frank, as the men went out into the field, “we must be steady and hold them down. If we can do it, this game belongs to us.”
But it did not take him long to discover that the men were too anxious. Walling let an easy hit go through him, and the batter reached first. Stubbs dropped a hot bounder, and two men were on bases. Wintz made a wild throw to third, and the bases were filled without Princeton having made a hit.