It was a hilly, sandy road, one of the worst in New Jersey, washed out in many places, and with ruts like trenches, but Bingo scorched and coasted as though it were an asphalt pavement or cinder race-track, and he scarcely slowed up through the whole twenty-five miles, but came into Princeton, the perspiration rolling down his face and his shirt wringing wet. On the campus he met Tom's room-mate.
"Why, if it isn't Braddy's brother," exclaimed Porter, "and steaming like a kettle! Glad to see you, boy. How is poor old Tom?"
"A little better. He sent me up so as to tell him about the game."
"I see. Official reporter for the Redwood Star," laughed Porter. "It's mighty hard lines that Tom is laid up. Woods is playing pretty well, but he can't touch the ball—strikes out every time. But come up to the room, little Brad. You'll spend the night, of course?"
Bingham followed Frank Porter up to the well-known room in Witherspoon Hall, and there he washed off the stains of travel as well as he could for asking questions and examining the groups on the wall.
"That's the '95 football team, isn't it? and there's Tom's Freshman nine. I saw the game here with Harvard, which we won, and we had a fire, don't you remember? What's that—the Glee Club? Tom has the picture of the Mandolin Club. Do you think we're going to win to-day? Will Blake pitch?" etc.
Porter answered when Bingo gave him time, for "Braddy's brother" was a great favorite with Tom's friends, and they prophesied a brilliant athletic future for him.
Before going to lunch Porter took him to see the ingenious invention of one of the members of the faculty—of a cannon for shooting curved balls. "It's going to be a great thing in baseball," Porter said. "It will save the pitcher's arm, and give the nine splendid batting practice."
Lunch over, Bingham began to get impatient. Carriages and omnibuses were already rolling down to the grounds, and streams of people were ploughing through the dust.