For Wyndham, Raiford fouled out to third baseman, Tom flied out to first and Talbott fanned. There was no more scoring until the eighth. Then Horner sent her third tally over the plate on a hit, a sacrifice and a long fly-out to left fielder. Yet every inning between had seen men on bases and runs apparently imminent. Even Wyndham revived the hopes of her supporters in the seventh by getting Tyson as far as third on a scratch hit, a sacrifice bunt by Captain Leland and an out. Risley went to bat amidst loud acclaim. Clif, red-faced from recent vocal exertions, begged Gus to “make it a homer!” But the best the substitute catcher could do was arch a tremendously long fly into the outfield where, having been warned of Risley’s batting prowess, the Horner center fielder was playing well back toward the running track and had only to step a few yards to his left to make the catch. Horner failed to threaten in the first half of the ninth, and Wyndham went to bat with the Blue’s adherents imploring a victory. But although Tom started things going, after Raiford had fouled out, with a hot liner through shortstop’s legs and got to second when Talbott hit along the base path and was safe when the baseman juggled the hurried throw, nothing came of the rally. Van Dyke struck out, and Jackson, batting for Jeff Ogden, lifted a high fly to shortstop, and the game was over, the score 3 to 0. Wyndham had played an errorless game, had made five hits and had been defeated. Horner had made two errors, batted safely ten times and had won. From which it was fairly adjudged by a somewhat indignant student body that what the home team needed were a few fellows who could hit the pellet! That was also the decision arrived at that evening when Mr. Bingham and Mr. Cooper played hosts to the Triumvirate at the Inn. Tom, who had made one of the Wyndham hits, attempted a rather vague excuse for the first team but was squelched by Clif and Loring. He finally confessed that something ought to be done, adding brightly: “We might put our thoughts on ’em, Loring. Maybe we could will a bunch of bingles the next time, eh? What price psychology?” Clif begged him not to be a giddy ass. “I don’t suppose,” acknowledged Loring, “that it’s quite practical to work mental suggestion on a whole baseball team but we might pick out a few of the worst batters and try it on them.” The idea seemed to amuse Mr. Bingham immensely, and he chuckled and chuckled over it, the glowing end of his cigar waggling up and down in the darkness of the porch. Clif said, almost accusingly: “I don’t see that psychology has done me a whole lot of good. I’m still on the scrub!” “But,” responded Tom gently, “think where you’d be without it! Playing with the West Hall Terriers, probably.” “I didn’t know that you were keen about promotion,” said Mr. Bingham. “Thought you were doing pretty well where you are and quite satisfied, son.”