"It's the only chance you'll get." His words were drowned in the tumult and noise.
Up in the grand stand there was a waving of blue flags and white handkerchiefs, telling that there were not a few of the fair spectators who sympathized with the boys from New Haven.
Then the man at the bat reached first on a scratch hit and a fumble, and there seemed to be a small rift in the clouds which had lowered over the heads of the Yale freshmen so long.
But the next man up promptly fouled out, and the clouds seemed to close in again as dark as ever.
In the meantime Frank was warming up with the aid of Danny Griswold, and Walter Gordon sat on the bench, looking sulky and downcast.
"Gordon is a regular pig," said one of the freshman players to a companion.

"He doesn't know when he has enough." "Well, we know we have had enough of him this game," said the other, sourly.

"If we had played a rotten fielding game Harvard would have a hundred now." "Well, nearly that," grinned the first speaker.

"Gordon hasn't struck out a man." "And still he is sore because Putnam is going to put Merriwell in! I suppose that is natural, but--Hi, there! look a' that! Great Scott! what sloppy work! Did you see Newton get caught playing off second?
Well, that gives me cramps! Come on; he's the last man, and we'll have to go out." So, to the delight of the Harvard crowd, Yale was whitewashed again, and there seemed no show for the New Haven boys to win.
Walter Gordon remained on the bench, and Frank walked down into the box.
Then came positive proof of Merriwell's popularity, for the New Haven spectators arose as one man, wildly waving hats and flags, and gave three cheers and a tiger for Frank.
"That's what kills him!" exclaimed Pierson in disgust.

"It is sure to rattle any green man." "That's right," yawned Collingwood.