at
among the substitutes; not Sproule, since he was present but a moment
since. But Joel March was missing. In his room at Masters Hall Joel sat
by the table with a Greek history open before him. I fear he was doing
but little studying, for now and then he arose from his chair, walked
impatiently to the window, from which he could see in the distance the
thronged field, bright with life and color, turned impatiently away,
sighed, and so returned again to his book. But surely we can not tarry
there with Joel when Hillton and St. Eustace are about to meet in
gallant if bloodless combat on the campus. Let us leave him to sigh and
sulk, and return to the gridiron.

A murmur that rapidly grows to a shout arises from the grand stand, and
suddenly every eye is turned up the river path toward the school. They
are coming! A little band of canvas-armored knights are trotting toward
the campus. The shouting grows in volume, and the band changes its tune
to "Hilltonians." Nearer and nearer they come, and then are swinging on
to the field, leaping the rope, and throwing aside sweaters and coats.
Big Greer is in the lead, good-natured and smiling. Then comes Whipple,
then Warren, and the others are in a bunch--Post, Christie, Fenton,
Littlefield, Barnard, Turner, Cote, Wills. The St. Eustace contingent
gives them a royal welcome, and West and Cooke and Somers and others
take their places in front of the seats and lead the cheering.

"Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, Hillton!" The mighty chorus
sweeps across the campus and causes more than one player's heart to
swell within him.

"S-E-A, S-E-A, S-E-A, Saint Eustace!" What the cheer lacks in volume is
atoned for by good will, and a clapping of hands from the hostile seats
attests admiration. Hillton is warming for the fray. Greer and Whipple
are practicing snapping-back, the latter passing the ball to Warren,
who seizes it and runs a few steps to a new position, where the play is
repeated. The guards and tackles are throwing themselves on to the
ground and clutching rolling footballs in a way that draws a shudder of
alarm from the feminine observer. Stephen Remsen is talking with the
ends very earnestly under the goal posts, and Post and Wills are aiming
balls at the goal with, it must be acknowledged, small success.

Then a whistle blows, the two teams congregate in the center of the
field, the opposing captains flip a coin, the referee, a Yates College
man, utters a few wor