"Listen!" murmured Andy, looking for a place in which to hide.

Then they heard shouts like these:

"That's the idea!"

"Come on down to the Taft!"

"We'll give the Princeton bunch a cheer that will put the kibosh on them for to-morrow."

"No, don't go down there," cautioned cooler heads. "We'll only get into a row. Come on to the rathskeller!"

"No, the Taft!"

"The rathskeller!"

Thus the dispute went on, until those who were opposed to disturbing the Princeton players had their way, and the crowd moved out of hearing.

"Thank our lucky stars!" murmured Dunk. "Let's get our chocolate and get back to our room."

"I'm with you," said Andy.

"Oh, by the way, isn't there one of your friends on the Princeton team?"

asked Dunk, as he and Andy were sipping their chocolate in a drugstore, on a quiet street.

"Yes, Ben Snow. He's with the crowd at the Taft."

"Did you see him?"

"For a little while this evening."

"I reckon he thinks his nine is going to win."

"Naturally," laughed Andy. "The same as we do. But don't let's talk about it until to-morrow. I've gotten over some of my fit of nerves, and I want to lose it for good."

"Same here. That little run-in did us good."

The two chums were back again in their room, and Andy brought out his catching glove, which he proceeded to mend.

Quiet was settling down over the quadrangle and in the dormitories about the big, elm-shaded square. Light after light in the rooms of the students went out. In the distant city streets the hum of traffic grew less and less.

It was quiet in the room where Dunk and Andy sat. Now and then, from some room would come the tinkle of a piano, or the hum of some soft-voiced chorus.

"What was that you said about horseshoe nails and bees?" asked Dunk, drowsily, from his corner of the much be-cushioned sofa.

"Forget it," advised Andy, sleepily. "I'm going to turn in. I'm in just the mood to drowse off now, and I don't want to get roused up."

"Same here, Andy. Say, but I wish it were to-morrow!"

"So do I, old man!"

The room grew more quiet. Only the night wind sighed through the opened window, fluttering the blue curtains.

Andy and Dunk were asleep.

The day of the ball game came, as all days do--if you wait long enough.

There was a good crowd on the benches and in the grandstand when Andy and his mates came out for practice. Of course it was not like a varsity championship contest, but the Princeton nine had brought along some "rooters" and there were songs and cheers from the rival colleges.

"Play ball!" called the umpire, and Andy took his place behind the rubber, while Dunk went to the mound. The two chums felt not a little nervous, for this was their first real college contest, and the result meant much for them.

"Here's where the Tiger eats the Bulldog!" cried a voice Andy recognized as that of Ben Snow. Ben had come on with the Princeton delegation the night before, and had renewed acquaintance with Andy. They had spent some time together, Ben and the players stopping at the Hotel Taft.

There was a laugh at Ben's remark, and the Princeton cheer broke forth as Dunk delivered his first ball. Then the game was on.

"Wow! That was a hot one!"

"And he fanned the air!"

"Feed 'em another one like that, Dunk, and you'll have 'em eating out of your hand and begging for more!"

Joyous shouts and cheers greeted Dunk's first ball, for the Princeton batter had missed it cleanly, though he swung at it with all his force.

"Good work!" Andy signaled to his chum, as he sent the ball back. Then, stooping and pawing in the dirt, Andy gave the sign for a high out. He thought he had detected indications that the batter would be more easily deceived by such a delivery.

Dunk, glancing about to see that all his supporting players were in position, shook his head in opposition to Andy's signal. Then he signed that he would shoot an in-curve.

Andy had his doubts as to the wisdom of this, but it was too late to change for Dunk was winding up for his delivery. A moment later he sent in the ball with vicious force. Andy had put out his hands to gather it into his big mitt, but it was not to be.

With a resounding thud the bat met the ball squarely and sent it over center field in a graceful ascending curve that bid fair to carry it far.

"Oh, what a pretty one!"

"Right on the nose!"

"Didn't he swat it! Go on, you beggar! Run! Run!"

"Make it a home run!"

The crowd of Princeton adherents had leaped to their feet, and were cheering like mad.

"Go on, old man!"

"Take another base. He can't get it!"

"Go to third!"

"Come on home!"

The centerfielder had been obliged to run back after the far-knocked ball. It was seen that he could not possibly get under it, but he might field it home in time to save a score.