“I tell you she has!”
And then the argument began, good-natured enough, but only one of many like it going on all about the grounds.
“Hark!” said Joe to Spike, as they were walking back toward the diamond. “Isn’t that great?”
There had come a momentary hush, and the sweet strains of the Princeton song—“Orange and Black,” floated over the big diamond. Many of the spectators—former college men—joined in, Yale ceased her cheering while this was rendered, and then came a burst of applause, for the melody was exceptionally well rendered.
“Well, they may sing, but they can’t play ball,” said Spike.
Out came the bulldogs, and at once it seemed as if a bit of blue sky had suddenly descended on the stands, so solid was the mass of ultramarine color displayed, in contrast to the orange and black.
“Joe, old man, isn’t it great!” cried Spike, capering about. “To think that I’m really going to play in this big championship game!”
“It’s fine!” exclaimed Joe, yet he himself was thinking how glorious it would be if he was only a professional, and could occupy the mound of the Polo Grounds regularly instead of on this rare occasion. “And I will, too, some day!” he murmured.
“Play ball!”
The practice was over, the last conference between coaches, pitchers, catchers and captains had been held. The championship was now to be contested for. Yale had won the toss and taken last chance at bat.