"Oh, I wouldn't think of catching now, though it would be great,"

declared Joe's chum. "Give me a chance next season."

"I sure will," said the head coach. "Get busy now, everybody. We've got to beat Princeton!"

"Oh, Joe, do you think we'll win?" asked Spike, half nervously, the night before they were to start for New York to meet their rivals.

"Win! Of course we'll win!" cried Joe, and though so much depended on him, he was the coolest member of the team.

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE CHAMPIONSHIP

Such a crowd as filled the big Polo Grounds! The grandstands seemed full, and the bleachers too, but the elevated and surface roads brought more constantly, and the honking autos added to the clamor. It was a perfect day, and the ball field--one of the best in the world--where professionals meet professionals--was laid out with mathematical precision.

From their lairs near the press boxes the tigers trotted to be welcomed with shouts and yells from their supporters and the songs of their fellows.

"They beat us once--as we did them," said Joe in a low voice. "They may beat us again."

"Not much!" cried Spike. "A Yale victory is in the air. I can feel it!

Look at that blue," and he pointed to the sky, "and then at that," and he waved toward the azure-hued Yale stand, "and say we're going to lose!

I guess not!"

"A cheer for every man!" yelled the leader of the Princeton cheer masters, who were armed with big megaphones as were their New Haven rivals, except that the ribbons were of the tiger's stripes. "A cheer for every man!"

And then, as the Jersey cheer was howled there followed each time the name of some player--sweet music to their ears, no doubt.

"They're signalling to us," said Spike a little later. "I guess they want us inside to come out all in a bunch, as Princeton did."

This was the import of the message delivered to them a little later as they filed into the dressing rooms, where the team and subst.i.tutes now were.

"Remember, boys," said the captain solemnly, "we've got to win. It's Yale's luck against Princeton's maybe, but even with that it's got to be bulldog pluck against the tiger's fierceness. They can play ball."

"And so can we!" declared several, in low voices.

"Prove it--by beating 'em!" was the quick retort. "Pile out now, and have some snap to you!"

If Yale had gone wild, so now did the students from her rival college.

The orange and black, which had been in evidence on the opposite stand to that which showed the blue, now burst forth in a frenzy of color.

Hats were tossed in the air, canes too, and one excited man dashed his tall silk head covering about with such energy that he split it on the walking stick of a gentleman seated near him.

"I beg your pardon," said the one with the stick.

"Don't mention it! My fault entirely--I'm too excited, I guess, but I used to play on the Princeton team years ago, and I came to-day to see her win. I don't care for a hat--I can buy lots more. But Princeton is going to win! Wow!"

"I'm sorry for you," said the other with a smile. "But Yale has the bulge to-day."

"Never!"

"I tell you she has!"

And then the argument began, good-natured enough, but only one of many like it going on all about the grounds.

"Hark!" said Joe to Spike, as they were walking back toward the diamond.

"Isn't that great?"

There had come a momentary hush, and the sweet strains of the Princeton song--"Orange and Black," floated over the big diamond. Many of the spectators--former college men--joined in, Yale ceased her cheering while this was rendered, and then came a burst of applause, for the melody was exceptionally well rendered.

"Well, they may sing, but they can't play ball," said Spike.

Out came the bulldogs, and at once it seemed as if a bit of blue sky had suddenly descended on the stands, so solid was the ma.s.s of ultramarine color displayed, in contrast to the orange and black.

"Joe, old man, isn't it great!" cried Spike, capering about. "To think that I'm really going to play in this big championship game!"

"It's fine!" exclaimed Joe, yet he himself was thinking how glorious it would be if he was only a professional, and could occupy the mound of the Polo Grounds regularly instead of on this rare occasion. "And I will, too, some day!" he murmured.

"Play ball!"

The practice was over, the last conference between coaches, pitchers, catchers and captains had been held. The championship was now to be contested for. Yale had won the toss and taken last chance at bat.

"Play ball!"

Joe walked to the mound, a trifle nervous, as anyone would have been under the circ.u.mstances, but, with it all, holding himself well in hand.

As he got ready to deliver the customary five b.a.l.l.s before attending to the batter a quiet-appearing man, sitting in one of the press boxes, moved so as to get a better view of the young pitcher.

"What's the matter, Mack?" asked one of the reporters. "Think you see some bushleaguers in this bunch of college boys?"

"You never can tell," was the quiet answer. "I'm always on the lookout for recruits, and I'm particularly in need of a good pitcher."

"Well, both teams have some good ones I hear," went on the newspaper man, and then he devoted himself to sending out an account of the game to his paper.

With the first ball that he delivered Joe knew that he was in shape to pitch the game of his career. He was sure of his control, and he realized that with a little care he could place the horsehide just where he wanted it to go.

"If we can only bat a few we've got this cinched," decided Joe, always aware, though, of the fatal element of luck.

The early results seemed to justify his confidence. For four innings not a Princeton man got farther than first base, and the crowd was wildly cheering him.

"If it will only last," he thought, and the memory of his sore arm came to him as a shock. But he had not suffered from it since, and he hoped he would not.

On her part Yale had managed to get one run across, and thus the game stood at the beginning of the fifth inning. In that, for one fearful moment, Joe had fears. He had been signalled to walk the heaviest batter, but something went wrong, and the man plugged a three bagger that got past Spike. The next man up was a good hitter, and Kendall, in fear and trembling, signalled for another pa.s.s. But Joe shook his head.

He was going to try to strike him out. And he did.

Amid wild roars the man was retired, and when two more had gone down, and Princeton was still without a run, pandemonium broke loose.

Though Yale tried with all her might to sweeten the score, she could not--at least in the next two innings. She batted well, but Princeton seemed to be right on the ball every time. And with only one run as a margin, the game was far from won.