That evening Hodge came hurrying into Merriwell’s room, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Old man,” he cried, with unusual enthusiasm, “I want to thank you! You have worked it!” “Worked what?” “Got me on for a trial.” “On the nine?” “Yes, Capt. Hardy told me just now that I am to have a trial in the game against Williams next Saturday.” Frank sprang to his feet. “Congratulations, old chum!” he cried, extending his hand. “I wanted you behind the bat, and, if you are given a fair show, you will stay there. We have worked together before, and we’ll try it again for the sake of old Yale--dear old Yale!” Bart clasped the extended hand. It was a warm clasp, the clasp of true friendship. On Saturday the ball game came off. There was a tremendous crowd on hand to witness the game and not a little betting on the result. At first matters seemed to go against Yale and more than one groan of dismay went up. Capt. Hardy was very anxious to win and made such a desperate two-base run in the sixth inning that he dropped down utterly exhausted, much to his friends’ surprise. But after that occurrence the Yale team braced up. Frank never worked better and Hodge did equally well, and at the conclusion the score stood 4 to 5 in favor of Old Eli. “We won, but it was close,” said Bruce Browning. And all realized that this was true--the score was altogether too close for comfort--considering the heavy games still to be played. CHAPTER XVIII. MORE BASEBALL TALK. “Poor old Yale!” said Ben Halliday, mournfully. “Poor old Yale!” echoed Dismal Jones, with something like a sob. “Oh, what’s the use of squealing before we know whether we are hurt or not?” cried Puss Parker. “Old Eli has a way of coming out on top at the last moment.” “It’s a mighty slim show she has now,” said Pink Pooler, and it almost seemed that there was something like satisfaction in his voice. “If she can’t do better than beat little Williams by one score, what can she do against Princeton? Nat Finch is one of the finest amateur pitchers in this country, and he will make monkeys of Yale’s ordinary batters, while our best men will stand a poor show against him.” “How did Princeton get hold of such a fellow?” asked Halliday. “I don’t know, but I am willing to bet something that his tuition does not cost him anything.” “If we could prove that we could end his career as a pitcher in the college league,” said Halliday. “But it can’t be proved,” said Pooler, quickly, “and so Princeton has us by the neck.” “I wouldn’t bet that way if I could get odds,” grunted Bruce Browning, as he came loafing up to the fence on the Yale campus, where the little knot of lads were holding the earnest discussion. “Princeton is not so many, and Finch is not the only shirt in the laundry. He can be done up.” “He’ll never be done up by Yale,” declared Pooler, lighting a cigarette.