Into the coaches they hurried, and as the crowd about the hotel burst into loud, ringing cheers, the whips were cracked and the journey to the field began.  The route lay along quiet, unfrequented streets where only an occasional cheer from a college window met their advent.  Restraint had worn off now, and the fellows were chatting fast and furiously.  Joel looked out at the handsome homes and sunny street, and was aware only of a longing to be in the fray, an impatient desire to be doing.  Briscom, the substitute centre, a youth of twenty-one summers and one hundred and ninety-eight pounds, sat beside him.

“I was here two years ago with the freshman team,” he was saying.  “We didn’t do a thing to them, we youngsters, although the Varsity was licked badly.  And all during the afternoon game we sat together and cheered, until at five o’clock I couldn’t speak above a whisper.  That was a great game, that freshman contest!  It took three hours and a half to settle it.  At the beginning of the second half there were only three men on our team who had played in the first.  I was one of them.  I was playing left guard.  Story there was another.  He gave up before the game was through, though.  I held out and when the whistle sounded, down I went on the grass and didn’t stir for ten minutes.  We had two referees that day.  The first chap got hurt in a rush, and it took us half an hour to find a fellow brave enough to take his place.  That was a game.  Football’s tame nowadays.”

Across the coach Rutland, the right guard, a big bronze-haired chap of one hundred and ninety-six, was deep in a discussion with “Judge” Chase, right end, on an obscure point of ruling.

“If you’re making a fair catch and a player on the other side runs against you intentionally or otherwise, you’re interfered with, and the rules give your side fifteen yards,” declared Rutland.

“Not if the interference is accidental and doesn’t hurt your catch,” replied Chase.  “If the other fellow is running and can’t stop in time—­”

“Shut up, you fellows,” growled Captain Button.  “You play the game, and the referee will look after the rules for you.”

“If you go on,” said Briscom, “you must be careful about holding.  De Farge (the referee) is awfully down on holding and off-side plays.  Last year he penalized us eight times during the game.  But he’s all right, just the same.  He’s the finest little ref that ever tossed a coin.”

“I fear I won’t get a show,” mourned Joel.

“You can’t tell,” answered Briscom knowingly.  “Last year there were two fellows ahead of me and I got on for twenty minutes of the last half.  Trueland bent his ankle, Chesney hurt his knee, and Condon got whacked on the head.  Watch the game every minute of the time, March, and learn how the Yates halves play the game.  Then if you do go on you won’t be in the dark.”

The coaches rolled up to the players’ entrance to the field, and the fellows hopped out and disappeared into the quarters.