There was a great clapping of hands from the admirers of the juniors at this effort, but the seniors promptly responded from the other end of the gallery to the tune of Dixie, with: 

“The seniors are the real thing. 
Hurrah!  Hurrah! 
Our gallant team now takes its stand,
And all the baskets soon will land. 
We shout, we sing, the praises of the seniors.”

Hardly had the last notes died away, when the referee blew the whistle and the teams hustled to their positions.  Grace and Julia Crosby faced each other, beamed amiably and shook hands, then stood vigilant, eyes on the ball that the referee balanced in her hands.  Up it went, the whistle sounded and the two captains sprang straight for it.  Grace captured it, however, and sent it flying toward Miriam, who was so carefully guarded that she dared not attempt to make the basket, and after a feint managed to throw it to Nora, who tried for the basket at long range and missed.

There was a general scramble for the ball, and for five minutes neither team scored; then Marian Barber dropped a neat field goal, and soon after Grace scored on a foul.  The junior fans howled joyfully at the good work of their team.  The seniors did not intend to allow them to score again in a hurry.  They played such a close guarding game that, try as they might, the juniors made no headway.  Then Julia Crosby scored on a field goal, making the score 3 to 2.  This spurred the junior team on to greater effort, and Miriam made a brilliant throw to basket that brought forth an ovation from the gallery.  This ended the first half, with the score 5 to 2 in favor of the juniors.

“They’ll have to work to catch up with us now,” said Nora O’Malley triumphantly to the members of the team, who sat resting in the little side room off the gymnasium.

“We have the lead, but we can’t afford to boast yet,” replied Grace.  “The seniors played a fine game last half, and they’ll strain every nerve to pile up their score next half.”

“We shall win,” said Miriam Nesbit confidently.  “I feel it in my bones.”

“Let’s hope that your bones are true prophets,” laughed Marian Barber.

“O girls!” exclaimed Eva Allen from the open door, in which she had been standing looking up at the gallery.  “Eleanor is here.  She and her satellites are sitting away up on the back seat of the gallery.”

“Where?” asked Nora, going to the door.  “Oh, yes, I see her.  She looks as haughty as ever.  It’s a wonder she’d condescend to come and watch her mortal enemies play.”

“I suppose she hopes we’ll lose,” said Marian Barber.  “That would fill her with joy.”

“Then we’ll see that she goes away in a gloomy frame of mind,” said Nora, “for we’re going to win, and don’t you forget to remember it.”