that was bred by the very outline of the stadium, the concrete sides of
which had rocked with throat-tearing sounds, time on time. How could
one's blood help but warm, even under the pelting of rain, at the
memories intrusted to the historic amphitheater of sport in which so
many athletic classics had been staged? Davies' heart leaped as he
came inside the stadium and got his first glimpse of the green-sodded
gridiron, now spotted with pools of water, the goal posts looking sleek.

Already the stands were alive with huddled humanity and bobbing
umbrellas. Yellow slickers, dotted through the field of black, made
Davies think of a checkered taxicab. He cursed himself for not having
brought his own raincoat along. In years gone by he could have been
wet to the skin and not minded it, but now he was conscious of a desire
for dry comfort. Certainly he couldn't be getting old!

By game time the stadium was a howling, wet mass. The rain had
subsided to a spraylike drizzle, and Carrington, after a minute study
of the sky line, decided that this improvement was the best which could
be hoped for.

The conditions underfoot were bad. The sod was soggy and slippery.
Punters, in practice, stationed themselves with great care before
getting off their kicks. Even then the punting experts were observed
to retain their footing, at times, with difficulty. Davies shook his
head forebodingly. There was nothing encouraging to the Crimson in the
outlook.

The sons of Old Eli were cheering their steam-roller eleven to the
echo. As Davies compared the heavy Yale line with the noticeably
thinner Harvard wall, he shuddered instinctively as he thought of these
men taking the impact of what was due to come. He was seized with a
sense of futility at the very outset, and a ready sympathy for the
Harvard back field. He had been in just such a position years before
when it seemed as though he was battering his head against the side of
a brick building, and all for naught, it seemed, too--only that he knew
he should keep on battering, battering, just for the Crimson, the dear
old Crimson.

Plunk! The hollow, wet sound of toe meeting pigskin and a
mud-spattered object turning end over end, with beneath it--jerseyed
figures charging! Harvard had kicked off!

Davies rose spontaneously from his seat and added his puny voice to the
maelstrom of noise. On the Yale ten-yard line a blue-clad man pulled
down the mud-spattered object and,