Frank Merriwell's Return to Yale Part 66

"What with?"

"A roll."

"A roll of what?"

"Bank notes."

"You mean he has been betting?"

"Sure."

"But you don't mean he bet on Harvard?"

"I understand he put his last cent on Harvard, and went broke. He was fortunate enough to have a return ticket to New Haven, so he didn't have to borrow money to get back on."

Harris was sitting in a seat, looking sulky and disgusted, fiercely trying to chew the end of his short black mustache. His hat was pulled over his eyes, and he did not seem to take much interest in what was going on in the car.

Stubbs and Creighton got a crowd together to jolly Harris, and they descended on him in a body.

"h.e.l.lo, old man!" cried Charlie, gayly. "Is it straight that you won three hundred on Yale to-day?"

"I heard it was five hundred," chirped Bink Stubbs, "What a pull to make! Congratulations, old man!"

"You'll have to ball the crowd when we get to New Haven, Sport," said Lewis Little. "You can afford to open fizz."

Harris smiled in a sickly way, and tried to say something, but Paul Pierson got him by the hand and gave him a shaking up that literally took away his breath.

"Good boy!" cried Paul. "I'm glad you stuck by old Eli! But did you have the nerve to bet every cent you had that Yale would take that game? My, my! You are a nervy fellow, Sport, old chap. You were the only man who had all that confidence."

"Sport never goes back on old Yale," laughed Little. "He knew the chance of Yale's winning looked slim, but still he backed her up. That's what makes him look so cheerful now."

"You would have felt bad if you had bet your money on Harvard, now wouldn't you?" cried Thornton.

"Oh, yes, I certainly should," gasped Harris, who was suffering tortures.

"What a jolly time we'll have drinking fizz on you, old man!" exclaimed Bink Stubbs. "I feel as if I might get away with about four quarts."

"Oh, we'll make a hole in your winnings!" laughed Pierson. "I am so dry this minute that my neck squeaks."

"So are we all!" shouted the others.

Harris could not repress a groan. He wondered if they were fooling with him, but they seemed so much in earnest that he could not tell. Perhaps they really thought he had won a big roll on Yale. He couldn't tell them he had bet on Harvard. What could he do?

He was forced to pretend that he was delighted, but over and over he promised himself that he would give them the slip, even if he had to leap from the train while it was running at full speed. Pay for fizz!

Why, he didn't have enough left to pay for a gla.s.s of plain beer!

CHAPTER XL.

REJOICING AT YALE.

Harris found his opportunity to slip away when the train drew into the station at New Haven.

A band of music was on hand to meet the returning conquerors. A wild mob of screaming, cheering, horn-tooting students was there.

It was evening, and the Yale lads had come down to the station with torches, prepared to give the eleven such a reception as no other football team had ever met.

When the train drew into the station, the band was hammering away at a blood-stirring tune. When the train stopped, the great crowd of young men and boys presented a perfect sea of upturned faces beneath the flaring light of the torches. Blue was everywhere. It was Yale's great day, and all New Haven wore the color.

The train stopped. Then there was a fierce swaying and surging of the crowd, a flutter of flags, followed by a mighty cheer that was like a savage yell of joy over the downfall of a defeated and slain enemy.

How they shouted for Yale! How they swayed and surged! How like lunatics they were!

The sound of the band was drowned, and not a strain of music could be heard. The musicians continued to play, but they might have saved their breath.

The crowd knew well enough that the eleven would be on the smoker. That was the car in which the victors could disport themselves as hilariously as they pleased.

The smoker began to discharge its pa.s.sengers. Paul Pierson was the first to get off, and he was followed closely by a stream of Yale men.

The general cheering had died down, but almost every man who stepped from the train was greeted in some peculiar manner.

"What's the matter with Yale?" howled a voice.

Then a thousand throats seemed to roar back:

"She's all right! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! Yale!"

Bruce Browning appeared.

"Hey, Brownie!" cried some one on the platform. "How's your corns?"

"Sore," answered the big fellow. "Strained 'em cheering for Yale."

Bink Stubbs came forth riding astride Puss Parker's shoulders. Somewhere on the train he had captured a silk hat that was much too large for him, and it had dropped down over his head to his ears, which were lopped forward by the weight of it. In the hatband was stuck the short staff of a small flag. Bink had a horn, and he blew a hoa.r.s.e blast the moment he was outside the car.

"Where'd you get that horn?" called a voice.

"This horn's nothing," returned the little fellow. "I've had about twenty horns besides this, and still my neck is dry."

Four fellows came off the car, carrying a fifth. They held their caps in their hands, and were as mournful and sad-appearing as possible. The one who was carried had a big white placard on his breast. On the card were these words:

"I bet a dime on Harvard, and dropped dead after the game!"

It was not an easy thing to carry him down the steps, but the mournful-appearing bearers succeeded in doing the trick.