“But this wasn’t anything in reason,” said Spike. “Joe should have pitched the game, and then we’d have won. It was unreasonable to let Weston go in.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Ricky. “I don’t mean to say that Yale men would do any underhand work to make any athletic contest go by the board. But you can’t say, right off the bat, that Weston’s demand was unreasonable. He thought he could pitch to a victory, and he probably said as much, very forcibly. It was a chance that he might, and, when he appealed for a try, on the ground that he was an Anvil man—they had to give it to him, that’s all. It was all they could do, though I guess Horsehide didn’t want to.”
“But there’s Avondale,” went on Ricky. “What about him?”
“He’s an Anvil man, too.”
“And I’m not,” broke in Joe. “Say,” he asked with a laugh, “how do you join this society?”
“You don’t,” spoke Ricky solemnly. “You have to be asked, or tapped for it, just as for Wolf’s Head, or Skull and Bones. Oh, it’s an exclusive society all right, and as secret as a dark cellar.”
“And you really know this to be so?” asked Spike, almost incredulously.
“Well, no one says so out and out, but I’ve heard rumors before, and to-day they were strong enough to hear without a megaphone. Oh, Weston’s got the thing cinched all right.”
“Then I haven’t a chance,” sighed Joe, and more than ever he regretted coming to Yale. Yet, deep in his heart, was a fierce desire to pitch the college to a championship.