AT WEST POINT
“We’d a right to that game!”
“Sure we had.”
“And we did have it in the refrigerator, only it got out through the drain pipe, I guess.”
“It’s tough luck!”
The Yale team and its admirers—no, in this case its sympathizers—were coming off the field after the Harvard defeat. All sorts of comments, excuses, philosophical expressions, and revilings at fate, were heard. Joe said but little, though he thought much. Every error—every little point he had missed—seemed to stand out glaringly.
“Never mind, old man!”
It was Spike who spoke, putting his arm affectionately around his chum’s shoulders.
“I—I can’t help it,” replied the pitcher, bitterly. “We lost the game.”
“That’s just it—we did—not you. Cæsar’s ghost, man! You can’t carry the whole blame of losing the game, any more than you can claim the whole credit when we win. It’s all in the day’s work.”