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 words of warning, and the teams separate, St. Eustace taking the ball and the home team choosing the northern goal.  Then the cheering lessens.  St. Eustace spreads out; Cantrell, their center, places the ball; the referee’s whistle sounds, the pigskin soars aloft, and the game is on.

In charity toward Hillton let us pass over the first half as soon as may be.  Suffice to tell that the wearers of the crimson fought their best; that Whipple ran the team as well as even Remsen could desire; that Post made a startling run of forty yards, had only the St. Eustace full-back between him and the goal—­and then ran plump into that full-back’s arms; that Greer and Barnard and Littlefield stood like a stone wall—­and went down like one; that Wills kicked, and Post kicked, and Warren kicked, and none of them accomplished aught save to wring groans from the souls of all who looked on.  In short, it was St. Eustace’s half from kick-off to call of time, and all because Hillton had never a youth behind the line to kick out of danger or gain them a yard.  For St. Eustace was heavier in the line than Hillton and heavier back of it, and with the ball once in her possession St. Eustace had only to