The defeated team had gathered together. There was an air of sullenness about the members at losing the game, but this mood quickly passed under the entreaties of Pinky Davenport, who was a sportsman and "a good loser," as he besought his men to "perk up and wallop 'em next time." He called for three cheers for the victors, and they were followed by the Boxer Hall yell.
Back came three ringing acclamations and a "tiger" from Woodhouse and his mates, and their yell, as weird a combination of words and syllables as could well be devised, brought the whole concourse of spectators standing up in acknowledgment. Then came more cheering, and the nines disappeared into the dressing-rooms beneath the grandstand, while the crowds filed away.
"Well," remarked Sid as he walked along with Tom a little later, "it was a glorious victory, as the poem says. I don't exactly remember what it was all about nor how we did it, but ''twas a glorious victory.'"
"Now you're talking," was Phil Clinton's opinion. "Eh, Tommy, my lad?"
Tom was rather silent. He had cheered the nine until his throat ached, but somehow there was to him a hollowness in the winning.
"Too bad you couldn't play, old man," commented Sid. "I was almost hoping Langridge would strain his arm, and then"
