Then he thought of Tom, and how, not knowing the 8 to 6 score, he might lie awake all night fancying that Princeton had been beaten.
That would never do, and though it took all the sand that the boy had in his composition, he started off bravely again to carry the news home. All the memorable night rides of history seemed to him pure fun in comparison with this twenty-five-mile bicycle ride in the wake of a cyclone, the object of which was just as important as was that of Paul Revere, or Sheridan, or of the men who brought the news from Ghent to Aix. It was "too easy to gallop." Here he took another header, and his tire, which had sustained several slight punctures, suddenly collapsed.
Bingo sat down and actually laughed. The situation was hopeless to absurdity. It must be nine o'clock, and he had started before six, and there were still five miles to be gotten over somehow. But again the thought of the 8 to 6 score spurred him on, and dragging the wheel, which seemed to weigh tons, he trudged manfully through the sand, splashing in and out of puddles and climbing up and down hills, until the joyful sight of his own front gate at last rewarded him.
Then with a wild whoop he dropped the bicycle and sprinted up the road to the house. Three or four windows opened simultaneously.
"Eight to 6, 8 to 6!" shouted Bingo. "Tiger-siss-boom-ah! 8 to 6."
"In Princeton's favor?" cried his mother.
"Sure!" screamed back the boy, and in another moment Bingo had rushed upstairs into his brother's room to find Tom, flushed with fever, waving an old Princeton banner and cheering like mad. And to show what college spirit is, not until Bingo had described the whole game did his mother have the heart to ask him about the storm and how he had gotten home.
Blake's home run was so much more important. Why, the ride seemed nothing to him now.
"You really ought not to have done it, dear," said Mrs. Bradfield. "It was a terrible risk—and to come all alone—after such a storm."
Bingo laughed, and said nothing.