Read had no appetite that night at the training table.
"Never mind it, old fellow," said Frank, laying his hand on Read's shoulder. "That happens to the best of them once in a while; forget it; we'll get them next Tuesday. They had all the breaks of luck, anyway. It was their day."
"Yes, they had me; I was the best man on they had; I'm disgusted with myself," and the big pitcher hung his head.
"Forget it," said Frank, and nothing more was said; but in spite of the assumed cheerfulness it was a quiet lot of ball-players who took the train for New Haven.
During the next four days, the captain's arm was a subject for the careful attention of the trainers, who rubbed and kneaded the strained member at every possible opportunity. Nearly every known remedy was tried, for well everyone knew that on Armstrong depended the next game—the great Commencement game—which drew back thousands of graduates. The worried coach spent most of his time with Captain Armstrong, and when he had exhausted his own knowledge of arm treatments, went to old Yale ball-players who were flocking back to give what assistance they could in the crucial game. The newspapers deprecated Yale's chances, but the college was behind its team to a man.
"Armstrong has a glass arm," wrote the sporting writers in the daily prints. "Little hope for the Bull-dog; Harvard expects to clean up on Tuesday."
"We may fool 'em yet," said Frank, as he threw down a paper he had been reading, "eh, Turner? This old wing feels better to-night and I'm dying to get a chance at them."
"And we are with you," said Turner. "I want to get away from the memory of the fourteen to five business up at Cambridge."