“Now we’ve got ’em going,” came the cry. “A couple more hits and we’ve got the game.”
Joe was wary, but he was playing against experienced youths, and when he found the man on second trying to steal third he threw down, hoping to catch him. His throw was wild, the baseman jumped for it in vain, and the runner went on to third.
“Never mind—play for the batter,” advised Shorty.
Joe did, but somehow he could not get the right twist on the ball. He was hit for a single, and the man on third scored.
“Two more and we’ve got ’em!” yelled the delighted wearers of the crimson. “None down yet.”
Then, whether it was the effect of luck, or because the Yale team was hypnotized by the wearers of the crimson, was not manifest; but certain it was that the blue players went to pieces. It was not Joe’s fault—at least not all his, though he made one error. But this seemed to affect all the Yale team, and the result was a wild finish on the part of Harvard that put them two runs to the good, winning the game.
“Hard luck!” exclaimed Shorty, in a dejected voice, as he took off his glove and mask. “Hard luck!”