Old rowers looked the freshmen over with astonishment, for they gave the appearance of well-drilled amateurs, and not greenhorns. There were a few expressions of approval. The novel stroke was watched and criticised, and an old grad who was regarded as authority declared that the man who set the stroke for that crew was a comer, providing he was built of the right kind of stuff.

Then came the sophs and juniors, both pulling prettily and gracefully, and both being cheered by their cla.s.ses. The juniors were light, but they expected to walk away from the freshmen, as they had an expert at the stroke and had been coached by Collingwood.

Soon the three crews lined up, and the voice of the referee was heard:

"Are you ready?"

Dead silence.

"Go!"

Away shot the boats, and the sophs took the lead directly, their short, snappy stroke giving the boat the required impetus in short order. The juniors held close on to them, while the freshmen seemed to take altogether too much time to get away, striking a regular, long, swinging stroke that seemed to be "overdone," as a jubilant soph.o.m.ore spectator characterized it.

The sophs along the sh.o.r.e and on the point were wild with delight. They danced and howled, confident of victory at the very outset. The juniors were enthusiastic, but not so demonstrative as the soph.o.m.ores. The freshmen cheered, but there seemed to be disappointment in the sound.

"Whoop 'er up for 'Umpty-seven!" howled the sophs. "Whoop 'er up! 'Rah!

'rah! 'rah! This is a cinch!"

"'Umpty-eight is in it; she will catch 'em in a minute," sang the freshmen. "She is crawling on them!"

"All she can do is crawl!" yelled a soph, but his remark was drowned in the wild tumult of noise.

"'Umpty-six is up to tricks!" shouted the juniors. "'Umpty-six, they are bricks! Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah!"

The yelling of the freshmen became louder, for their crew was holding its own--was beginning to gain.

"That is the best freshman crew that ever appeared at Saltonstall,"

declared a spectator. "Every man seems to be a worker. There's no one shirking."

"And look at the stroke oar," urged another. "That fellow is the winner!

He is working like a veteran, and he is setting a stroke that is bound to tell before the race is over."

This was true enough. The strong, long stroke of the freshmen kept their boat going steadily at high speed once it was in motion, and they steadily overhauled the juniors, who had fallen away from the sophs. At the stake the freshman crew pa.s.sed the juniors, and the freshmen witnesses had fits.

But that was not the end of the excitement. The speed of the freshman boat was something wonderful, and it was overhauling the sophs, despite the fact that they were pulling for dear life to hold the lead.

And now the shouting for 'Umpty-eight was heard on every side. The sophs were encouraging their men to hold the advantage to the finish, but still the freshmen were gaining.

The nose of the freshman boat crept alongside the sophs, whose faces wore a do-or-die look. The suspense was awful, the excitement was intense:

Then Rattleton was heard talking:

"Well, this is the greatest snap we ever struck! I wonder how the sophs like the Oxford stroke? Oh, my! what guys we are making of them! It don't make a dit of bifference how hard they pull, they're not in the race at all. Poor sophs! Why don't they get out and walk? They could get along faster."

That seemed to break the sophs up, and then a great shout went up as the freshman boat forged into the lead. They soon led the sophs by a length, and crossed the line thirty feet in advance.

Then Rattleton keeled over, completely done up, but supremely happy.

How the freshmen spectators did cheer!

"'Umpty-eight! 'Umpty-eight! Whoop 'er up! 'Rah! 'rah!' rah!"

It was another great victory for the freshmen--and Frank Merriwell, and that night a great bonfire blazed on the campus and the students made merry. They blew horns, sang, cheered and had a high old time.

The freshmen made the most noise, and they were very proud and aggressive. Never had Yale College freshmen seemed happier.

"Where is Merriwell?" was the question that went around.

A committee was sent to search for him, and they returned with him on their shoulders. He tried to get down, but he could not.

Uncle Blossom climbed on a box and shouted:

"Three cheers for 'Umpty-eight, the winners!"

The cheers were given.

Easy Street leaped on another box and yelled:

"Three cheers for Frank Merriwell, the winning oar!"

It seemed that the freshmen were trying to split their throats. And not a few juniors joined with them, showing how much admiration Merriwell had won outside his own cla.s.s.

Walter Gordon cheered with the others, but Roland Ditson stood at a distance, beating his heart out with rage and jealousy. He was all alone, for at Yale not one man was left who cared to acknowledge Ditson as a friend.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A CHANGE OF PITCHERS.

"The game is lost!"

"Sure."

"Yale has not scored since the second inning."

"That's right. She made one in the first and three in the second, and then comes four beautiful whitewashes. Harvard hasn't missed a trick, and the score is eleven to four in her favor."

"Lewis, this is awful!"

"Right you are, Jones. Hear those Harvard rooters whoop up! It gives me nervous prostration."

The Yale freshmen were playing the Harvard freshmen on the grounds of the latter team, and quite a large delegation had come on from New Haven to witness the game, which was the second of the series of three arranged between the freshmen teams of the two colleges. The first had been played at New Haven, and the third was to be played on neutral ground.

Yale had won the first game by heavy batting, the final score being twelve to eleven. As the regular 'Varsity nine had likewise won the first of their series with Harvard, the "Sons of Eli" began to think they had a sure thing, and those who came on from New Haven were dead sure in their minds that they would bring back the scalps of the Harvard freshmen. They said over and over that there would be no need of a third game to settle the matter; Yale would settle it in the second.

Walter Gordon had pitched the whole of the first Harvard game. He had been hammered for thirteen singles, two two-baggers, and a three-bagger, and still Yale had pulled out, which was rather remarkable. But Walter had managed to keep Harvard's. .h.i.ts scattered, while Yale bunched their hits in two innings, which was just enough to give them the winning score.