The delight of the Dean men may be imagined. They ran about shouting and hugging one another, while we stood for several seconds in our various positions almost unable to realize the truth. Laughing and cheering, the crowd moved off toward the gate, while we despondently gathered up our things and walked silently toward our omnibus. There we found our friends, but none of them inclined to say anything. There was simply nothing to say. Having gone into the game with feelings of the utmost confidence, our chagrin and humiliation passed all expression. I looked at no one. I simply wanted to be alone――to bury myself in some place where I could not see the reproachful and disappointed eyes that I knew would look upon our return. But even reproach and disappointment were not the worst I feared. I expected ridicule, for the idea of being beaten by Dean College seemed absurd. Such a thing had never been known at Belmont. “Don’t tell me there is no such thing as luck in baseball,” said Tony Larcom’s voice behind me. “Nonsense,” I exclaimed impatiently. “What has luck to do with us? With all our hard luck we would have won, but for―――― Well, never mind. He feels it no doubt worse than the rest of us, so let us spare him any criticism.” “Just think what a jubilee the Park men will hold to-night when they hear the news! Oh, what can have gotten into the boys anyhow, to let these fellows get away with us?” said Dick Palmer bitterly. “It is all clear enough to me,” I answered, “but it will do no good to talk about it.” “Small chance we stand for the Crimson Banner now,” said somebody. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, let us get away and say no more,” I exclaimed, turning abruptly on my heel. “I can’t bear to think of it.” We hurried into our omnibus, and, in silence, the three vehicles left the grounds that had been the scene of our disastrous encounter. Though probably much conversation took place in the other omnibuses that would have been unpleasant for us to hear, in our own very little was said. This was chiefly out of respect to poor Fred Harrison, who sat on the front seat, with his chin on his hand. I was sitting next to Ray Wendell, so I took advantage of the opportunity to ask him in a low tone, unheard by the rest: “Well, Ray, what do you think of it?” “I can’t understand it,” he answered slowly. “Fred was so good in practice. He has disappointed me severely. I do not despair, for I think we can beat Park College yet, and there will be some satisfaction in that, but,” he added in a still lower tone, “we will have to make one change in the nine. That is settled.” I nodded my head, for I understood him perfectly. “I am very sorry for Fred, and I pity him sincerely now, for I know that he is fully aware of the blame that rests on him, and that he is correspondingly unhappy, but he must go. We can’t keep him on the nine a day longer. He has about ruined our chances now――――” Ray was here interrupted by a general exclamation of alarm.