Bruised and battered, yet triumphant and rejoicing, the Yale players were returning to New Haven by rail. The train was packed by the students who had accompanied them. They were being praised and congratulated by every one. Bart Hodge, with his head bound up, sat quietly listening, a look of satisfaction on his face. Badger was near, talking to some friends. He winced and showed pain when somebody accidentally hit his right shoulder. Other men had been badly injured, and, but for their laughter, they were a rather sorry-looking lot. But Rattleton declared that, as long as they had won, they’d laugh if every man of them had been killed.
The students were singing and shaking hands with each other.
“Poor old Harvard!” cried Parker, standing on a seat. “How bad she’ll feel! She only made twelve points against Brown!”
“We’ll use her just as bad when we get against her,” declared Rick Powell.
“If we’re not all in hospital when that time comes,” groaned an injured player. “Those Providence fellows are devils!”
“They seemed determined to kill somebody before the game was over,” said Pooler. “I thought they’d do it, too.”
“I believe you are the only man, Merriwell, who escaped without being hurt,” said Fred Birch, with somethink like envy.
“Think so?” smiled Frank.
“Yes. I’ve got a wrenched knee.”
“And I have a knocked-out shoulder,” said Badger.