"Hello, 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 glass 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!