"I'll try," promised Joe, as he went to the mound.

It looked as if he was going to make good, but luck, that element that is always present in games, especially in baseball, deserted the blue for the red. The first man up knocked a long, high fly to deep centre.

So sure was he, as well as everyone else, that it would be caught, that the player hardly ran, but the ball slipped through the fingers of Ed.

Hutchinson as if it had been greased, and the man was safe on second.

"Now we've got 'em going," came the cry. "A couple more hits and we've got the game."

Joe was wary, but he was playing against experienced youths, and when he found the man on second trying to steal third he threw down, hoping to catch him. His throw was wild, the baseman jumped for it in vain, and the runner went on to third.

"Never mind--play for the batter," advised Shorty.

Joe did, but somehow he could not get the right twist on the ball. He was. .h.i.t for a single, and the man on third scored.

"Two more and we've got 'em!" yelled the delighted wearers of the crimson. "None down yet."

Then, whether it was the effect of luck, or because the Yale team was hypnotized by the wearers of the crimson, was not manifest; but certain it was that the blue players went to pieces. It was not Joe's fault--at least not all his, though he made one error. But this seemed to affect all the Yale team, and the result was a wild finish on the part of Harvard that put them two runs to the good, winning the game.

"Hard luck!" exclaimed Shorty, in a dejected voice, as he took off his glove and mask. "Hard luck!"

CHAPTER XXV

AT WEST POINT

"We'd a right to that game!"

"Sure we had."

"And we did have it in the refrigerator, only it got out through the drain pipe, I guess."

"It's tough luck!"

The Yale team and its admirers--no, in this case its sympathizers--were coming off the field after the Harvard defeat. All sorts of comments, excuses, philosophical expressions, and revilings at fate, were heard.

Joe said but little, though he thought much. Every error--every little point he had missed--seemed to stand out glaringly.

"Never mind, old man!"

It was Spike who spoke, putting his arm affectionately around his chum's shoulders.

"I--I can't help it," replied the pitcher, bitterly. "We lost the game."

"That's just it--we did--not you. Caesar's ghost, man! You can't carry the whole blame of losing the game, any more than you can claim the whole credit when we win. It's all in the day's work."

"I know, but----"

"'But me no buts,' now Joe. Just brace up. This is only one of the championship games. There are more to come, and we'll get enough to put us on top of the heap. I only wish I had your chances to perform in public."

"I wish you had, Spike. But I guess this was my last chance."

"Nonsense! They'll play you again. Why Weston--or Avondale either, for that matter--wouldn't have done half as well, I think."

"Oh, so that's your opinion; is it?" snapped a voice behind them. There was no need to turn to know that Weston was there, and it took but a glance to show that he was frowning and sneering.

"It sure is," retorted Spike, st.u.r.dily, for he was not afraid to air his opinions.

"Well, you've got another think coming," snapped Weston. "I'll pitch a game pretty soon, and show you what's what."

Joe did not make reply, but he wondered if Weston's words held significance.

"Maybe they won't let me pitch after this," he mused. Spike, reading his thoughts, said:

"Now don't you go to thinking gloomy thinks, Joe. You're all right if you only believe so. Have some confidence in yourself."

"I have, but after the way things went to pieces in the last inning I don't know what to think."

"Oh, bosh! If you'd had anything like decent support it never would have happened. Hutchinson m.u.f.fing that ball started us down hill."

"That's what!" chimed in Jimmie Lee, coming along just then. "This is only one game--the fortunes of war. We'll beat 'em next time; wallop Princeton, and take the championship."

"West Point is next on the list," went on Joe. "I wonder what sort of a game they play?"

"Like clockwork," explained Spike. "I saw one, once, and they put it all over Yale. But we've got to win this one."

"That's what!" declared Jimmie. "I say, I know a nice place where we can get a dandy rabbit. Let's stay over to-night. I can stand some cuts, we'll take in a show, and have supper after it. Come on, and we can go to New Haven in the morning."

"No, I guess I'll go back with the team," said Joe, slowly. "They might think I was trying to dodge if I sneaked off. I'll go back with the rest."

"All right--then we'll go to Glory's and have a feed," insisted Jimmie.

"I've got to do something to raise my spirits."

They went to the dressing rooms, and soon the players and their friends were moving to the hotel where they had stopped.

Yale had cheered her successful rivals, and had been cheered in turn, and now, as the team walked through the Cambridge streets they heard, on all sides of them, the jubilant expressions that told of joy over the victory. To Joe it was gall and wormwood, for, in spite of the efforts of his friends to make him feel better, he half blamed himself for the defeat.

On the way home in the special train he was gloomy and silent, but later, when he and his chums went to the well-known resort, and heard the Yale songs, and saw the jolly faces of the students--jolly in spite of the defeat--he felt better.

"It's only once in a while that the bulldog loses his grip," declared Ricky Hanover. "We'll get a strangle hold on the rest of the games and come out on top of the heap."

College life resumed its usual routine after this big game. There were others in prospect, though, and practice went on unceasingly.

Joe half feared he would be displaced from his position on the 'varsity, but he was not. True, Weston and Avondale were called on at times, for the policy of the coaches was to have the best pitchers always in reserve. But Joe seemingly was the first one to be called on. Nor did Mr. Hasbrook reproach him, personally, for the defeat.

All the players received a calling down for their loose methods in the Harvard game, and their faults were pointed out in no uncertain fashion.

In a way the loss of the contest did good, for, following it, the practice was snappier than it had been in a long while.