tly against school courtesy, yet the more points your own team
makes, and the poorer the other plays, the more you feel like yelling
and waving your cane and slapping your friend on the back and
congratulating yourself that you went to Andover instead of Exeter.

Such a contest as this was the baseball game of '87. About the seventh
inning a mysterious-looking wagon containing something covered with a
canvas drove rapidly across the field and disappeared in the woods
behind. This strange appearance was soon forgotten in the interest of
the game; but the wagon bore the instruments of the Andover Brass Band,
who were concealed in the woods, and whom a loyal citizen had hired in
case of victory. At the end of the game, when all Andover was tearing
madly on the field and bearing off the victors on their shoulders, the
band appeared on the scene in full blare. Every one fell in behind them,
helping them out with tin horns and cries of "Left, left, left, the
Exeter men got left!" And each year some new feature like this is
introduced.

Then ensues the usual scene after a victory. The entire wild procession
moves to the depot, followed by the chagrined and more or less angry
Exeter men. At the depot, after some friendly scuffling and snatching of
canes and colors for souvenirs, and deafening cheering on the part of
everybody, the special train moves away for Andover, long before
stripped of its blue colors, to supply those who have failed to bring a
ribbon for themselves.

On the train the expressions of joy do not cease. Every brakeman or
conductor who ventures inside a car is immediately put up for a speech.
The brakemen often object, and smash their red lanterns about on the
heads of small boys, who do not mind it in the least. When Andover is
reached, all, tired and hoarse, but happy, make for their
boarding-houses for a rousing supper and a little rest before the
time-honored celebration in the evening. At half past eight this
celebration takes place, and all sally forth, armed with tin horns of
huge proportions. Study hours never count on celebration nights.

According to tradition, the members of the victorious team are drawn
about in a barge by a rope long enough for the whole school. They are
hauled about to the houses of the faculty. Each teacher is lustily
cheered by his popular nickname, and then called forth to make a speech.
After the round of the faculty houses, the whole mob, not a whit less
noisy for all i