le west end of the
city had been placarded.

"The students have had millions of 'em cards printed," said Worry.
"They're everywhere. Murray told me there was a hundred students
tackin' 'em up on the stands and bleachers. They've got 'em on
sticks of wood for pennants for the girls.... 'Peg Ward's Day!'
Well, I guess!"

At two-thirty o'clock the varsity ran upon the field, to the welcoming
though somewhat discordant music of the university band. What the music
lacked in harmony it made up in volume, and as noise appeared to be the
order of the day, it was most appropriate. However, a great booming
cheer from the crowded stands drowned the band.

It was a bright summer day, with the warm air swimming in the thick,
golden light of June, with white clouds sailing across the blue sky.
Grant Field resembled a beautiful crater with short, sloping sides
of white and gold and great splashes of red and dots of black all
encircling a round lake of emerald. Flashes of gray darted across
the green, and these were the Place players in practice. Everywhere
waved and twinkled and gleamed the red-and-white Wayne placards. And
the front of the stands bore wide-reaching bands of these colored cards.
The grand-stand, with its pretty girls and gowns, and waving pennants,
and dark-coated students, resembled a huge mosaic of many colors,
moving and flashing in the sunlight. One stand set apart for the Place
supporters was a solid mass of blue and gold. And opposite to it, in
vivid contrast, was a long circle of bleachers, where five thousand
red-placarded, red-ribboned Wayne students sat waiting to tear the
air into shreds with cheers. Dale and Stevens and Bryan, wearing their
varsity sweaters, strode to and fro on the cinder-path, and each carried
a megaphone. Cheers seemed to lurk in the very atmosphere. A soft, happy,
subdued roar swept around the field. Fun and good-nature and fair-play
and love of college pervaded that hum of many voices. Yet underneath it
all lay a suppressed spirit, a hidden energy, waiting for the battle.

When Wayne had finished a brief, snappy practice, Kern, a National
League umpire, called the game, with Place at bat. Ken Ward walked to
the pitcher's slab amid a prolonged outburst, and ten thousand red cards
bearing his name flashed like mirrors against the sunlight. Then the
crashing Place yell replied in defiance.

Ken surveyed his fellow-players, from whom came low, inspiriting words;
then, facing the bat