“Me, either. But there was such a mob of fellows that it was hard to find anyone. But if he’s here and he makes good, and pitches in some of the games, and if——”
“If you get the chance to pitch for the school nine, you and Sam may fight your old battles over again,” finished Tom.
“That’s right,” agreed Joe.
It was a discouraged, disgruntled and altogether unhappy crowd of lads that returned to Excelsior Hall late that afternoon. Despondency perched like a bird of ill-omen on the big flagstaff; and a celebration that some of the lads had arranged for, in case of a victory, did not come off.
Tom and Joe were seated in their room, talking over various matters, including the game of the day, when there came the usual signal on their door, indicating that a friend stood without.
“That’s Teeter,” predicted Tom.
“Peaches,” was Joe’s guess, but when he swung open the portal both lads stood there. On their faces were looks of suppressed excitement.
“What’s up?” demanded Joe.
“Lots. Special meeting of the athletic committee called. In the gym. Come on!” panted Peaches.