Without doubt, the most wretched man in New Jersey that day was Pink Pooler. He hated Frank Merriwell, he hated himself, he hated everybody and everything. The victorious shouts of the Yale men made him sick at heart, and he slunk away by himself. The news was sent to New Haven by wire. The score had been sent out by innings, and at the end of the fifth inning, with the score six to nothing in Princeton’s favor, a deep cloud of gloom hung over the Yale campus. The only hope of the most hopeful was that Yale would manage to get in one run and save a shutout. When the result of the next inning came in everyone seemed paralyzed with astonishment. They could not believe the defenders of the blue had made seven runs in a single inning. It seemed utterly ridiculous. They thought it was a hoax. Some bets were made that it was not right. And, when the game continued and ended, and they knew for a certainty that Yale had won, there was a wild scene on the Yale campus. To snatch victory from defeat in such a manner was enough to set the Yale men wild. “Where is Finch?” was the cry. “Oh, he had his troubles in the sixth! Our boys didn’t do a thing to him!” It was a remarkable game; the score board told that. A hundred fellows said they would have given anything had they seen it. They were regretful when they thought how they had remained away because they thought Yale did not have a chance to win. Everybody talked baseball, and Frank Merriwell’s name was on everybody’s tongue. It was generally believed that he was responsible for the marvelous manner in which Yale had won. “You may bet your life he did most of the pitching,” chuckled Paul Pierson. “Princeton did not score after the second inning. I’ll bet something Merriwell pitched the last seven innings of that game.” It was a happy crowd of players and rooters who took the train for New York that night. Some Princeton men came down and saw them off. “It’s all right, fellows,” called the Tigers. “You won by a fluke. Next time Finch will paralyze you. He is a dandy!” “What’s the matter with Merriwell?” cried Charlie Creighton. “You did not make a score off him. How do you like that delirium tremens curve of his?” “It’s a bird!” was the answer; “but we’ll eat it next time.” “Oh, I don’t know! Finch is a dandy, but what’s the matter with Merriwell?” “He’s all right!” shouted the jolly lads on the railway station. “You bet he is!” flung back the Yale men on the train. “Three cheers for Merriwell!” “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” Then the train drew out of the station. It was one of those glorious hours that comes to every college lad who admires the manly game of baseball. And it seems remarkable that any live American boy with warm blood in his body can fail to love the game with all his soul. CHAPTER XXVI. FIGHTING A GANG. “Merriwell won the game.” That was the report brought back to New Haven by the victors, and Frank was more of a hero than ever.