"But we'll do it!" cried Hatfield, fiercely.

"That's what!" echoed Joe.

Yale's chance came in the eighth inning, when, owing to an error by the Princeton shortstop, a man got to first. None were out, and Joe rapped out a pretty two-bagger that, followed by a wild throw home, enabled a man to score. Then Joe was brought in on a sacrifice hit, and when the inning ended Yale had three more runs, making the score four to nothing in her favor.

Once more the riot of blue shot over the stands, while the orange and black fluttered listlessly. But the tiger was growling in his lair, while the bulldog was thus barking, and every Yale player knew that fortune might yet turn against them.

But when Princeton had her last chance to bat, and only managed to get one run, it was all over but the shouting. Joe had pitched magnificently, and when the last chance of the Princeton tiger had vanished there was a rush for the young pitcher, and he was fairly carried away on the shoulders of his fellows.

And such cheering as there was!

"Yale wins!"

"Yale is champion!"

"Three cheers for Baseball Joe!"

The field swarmed with the spectators, who hardly stayed to hear the victors and vanquished cheer each other. The quiet man who had sat in the press box managed to get a word to Joe, though he had to shout to be heard above the din. The young pitcher looked startled, then pleased, and his voice faltered as he answered; after a little more talk:

"But supposing I don't make good, Mr.--er--?"

"Mack is my name, I represent the manager; in fact I'm his a.s.sistant."

"But supposing I don't make good?" repeated Joe. "I know I can do pretty well here, but, as you say, I don't seem to take to the college life.

Still, I wouldn't want to make a public try as I'd have to, and then give up. It would bar me from the amateur ranks forever."

"Yes, I know that," was the answer, "but you needn't be afraid. Look here, Matson. This isn't the first time I've done such a thing as this.

It's part of my business, and part of my business to know what I'm doing. I can size a player up as quick as a horse buyer can a spavined nag. I've sized you up, and I know you're all wool and a yard wide."

"But this is the first time you've seen me play."

"It was enough, I tell you."

"And, as I said," went on Joe, "I don't want to be in the position of putting myself out of the game. If I go in with you, and fail, I probably never could get another chance."

"Oh, yes you could. But look here, Matson, you mustn't think of failure.

You're not built that way. Now aren't you sport enough to take a chance?"

Joe was silent for a moment. He thought of many things--of his overpowering ambition, and then answered falteringly:

"I--I'm willing to try."

"All right, then I'll sign you," was the answer.

Another rush of the delirious students almost carried Joe off his feet.

He was cheered and cheered again. Through the mob came pushing and shoving the president of the exclusive Anvil Club.

"I say, Matson," he began, "this is great! Yale has come into her own again. We'd like the honor of electing you to our society, and would be pleased to have you make application."

"I'm much obliged to you," spoke Joe slowly, "but I'm afraid I can't."

"You can't! Why not?"

"Because I'm going to leave Yale!"

"Leave Yale!" came the indignant protest. "What for?"

"Because I have just accepted, tentatively, an offer from one of the managers of a professional league to pitch for him the rest of this season, and all of next," replied Joe quietly.

"That's right," confirmed the man who had whispered in our hero's ear. "I know a good pitcher when I see one, and there is no use of Matson wearing himself out on a college nine. He is cut out for a professional!"

And to all the protests of his cla.s.smates Joe would not give in. He knew that college was no place for him, and as the chance had come to get into the professional ranks, at good pay, he was going to take it; provided, of course, that his folks were willing.

How he did, and what happened, will be told in the next volume of this series, to be called, "Baseball Joe in the Central League; Or, Making Good as a Professional Pitcher."

"Oh, Joe, can't you reconsider, and stay at Yale?" begged Spike, when he and his chum, after the exciting events of the championship game, were in their room once more. "I don't know what I'm going to do without you."

"Spike, old man," said Joe, and his voice broke a little. "I would like to stay, for your sake, and for some of the other fine fellows I've met here. I'd like to stay in spite of the unpleasant experience I've had. I know it's going to break mother all up to hear I've left college, but I'm not cut out for it. I'm a square peg in a round hole. I want to get into professional baseball, and I've just _got_ to. I shouldn't be happy here."

"Well, if that's the case," said Spike, with a sigh, "I'm not going to say anything more. Only it sure is tough luck. Yale will miss you."

"And I'll miss her, too, in a way. But my place isn't here."

There was silence between them for a s.p.a.ce, and then Spike said softly:

"Come on down to Glory's--for the last time. Joe."

And they went out together.

THE END