have made the change long ago.
The Harvard Willies have been piling up something every inning."

Down on the visitors' bench Merriwell was seen to peel off, while Gordon
was talking rather excitedly to Burnham Putnam. It seemed evident by his
manner that he was speaking of something that did not please him very
much.

Merriwell was pulled out of his sweater, and then somebody tossed him a
practice ball. Little Danny Griswold, the Yale shortstop, put on a
catcher's mitt and prepared to catch for Frank.

Yale was making a last desperate struggle for a score in the sixth
inning. With one man out and a man on first, a weak batter came up. If
the batter tried to get a hit, it looked like a great opportunity for a
double play by Harvard.

Old Put, who was in uniform, ran down to first, and sent in the coacher,
whose place he took on the line. Then he signaled the batter to take
one, his signal being obeyed, and it proved to be a ball.

Put was a great coacher, and now he opened up in a lively way, with
Robinson rattling away over by third. Put was not talking simply to
rattle the pitcher; he was giving signals at the same time, and he
signed for the man on first to go down on the next pitch, at the same
time giving the batter the tip to make a fake swing at the ball to
bother the catcher.

This programme was carried out, and it worked, for the runner got second
on a slide and a close decision.

Then the Yale rooters opened their throats, and blue banners fluttered
in a bunch over on the bleachers where the New Haven gang was packed
together.

"Yell, you suckers, yell!" cried Dickson, Harvard's first baseman. "It's
the only chance you'll get."

His words were drowned in the tumult and noise.

Up in the grand stand there was a waving of blue flags and white
handkerchiefs, telling that there were not a few of the fair spectators
who sympathized with the boys from New Haven.

Then the man at the bat reached first on a scratch hit and a fumble, and
there seemed to be a small rift in the clouds which had lowered over the
heads of the Yale freshmen so long.

But the next man up promptly fouled out, and the clouds seemed to close
in again as dark as ever.

In the meantime Frank was warming up with the aid of Danny Griswold, and
Walter Gordon sat on the bench, looking sulky and downcast.

"Gordon is a regular pig," said one of the freshman players to a
companion. "He doesn't know when he has enough."

"Well, we kno