The crafty sprinter knew how to appeal to the students. All of voice and strength and enthusiasm left in them went up in a mighty bawl that rattled the windows and shook the house. They finished with nine “Waynes!” and a long, rousing “Peggie Ward!” and then they went away.
“By George! look here, Peg,” said Reddy, earnestly, “they gave you Wayne's Nine! Wayne's Nine! Do you hear? I never knew a freshman varsity man to get that cheer.”
“You've got to beat Place now, after tellin' 'em you'd do it,” added Worry.
“But, Worry, I didn't say a word—it was Reddy,” replied Ken, in distress.
“Same thing,” rejoined the coach. “Now, boys, let's quiet down and talk over the game. I won't waste any time jollyin' you. I couldn't praise you enough if I spent the rest of the season tryin' to. One and all, by yourselves and in a bunch, you played Herne off their feet. I'll bet MacNeff and Prince are dizzy figurin' what'll happen Saturday week. As to the score, why, scores don't mean much to us—”
“What was the score, anyway?” asked Ken.
The boys greeted this with shouts of doubtful laughter, and Worry glanced with disapproval at his star.
“Peg, you keep me guessin' a lot. But not to know how much we beat Herne would be more 'n I could stand. On the level, now, don't you know the score?”
“Fair and square, I don't, Worry. You never would let me think of how many runs we had or needed. I can count seven—yes, and one more, that was Reddy's home-run.”
“Peg, you must have been up in the air a little; 14 to 4, that's it. And we didn't take our bat in the last of the ninth.”