It was a happy crowd of players and rooters who took the train for New York that night. Some Princeton men came down and saw them off.
“It’s all right, fellows,” called the Tigers. “You won by a fluke. Next time Finch will paralyze you. He is a dandy!”
“What’s the matter with Merriwell?” cried Charlie Creighton. “You did not make a score off him. How do you like that delirium tremens curve of his?”
“It’s a bird!” was the answer; “but we’ll eat it next time.”
“Oh, I don’t know! Finch is a dandy, but what’s the matter with Merriwell?”
“He’s all right!” shouted the jolly lads on the railway station.
“You bet he is!” flung back the Yale men on the train. “Three cheers for Merriwell!”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”
Then the train drew out of the station.
It was one of those glorious hours that comes to every college lad who admires the manly game of baseball. And it seems remarkable that any live American boy with warm blood in his body can fail to love the game with all his soul.