And suddenly the bleachers went mad and the air fluttered with banners, as the big teams rushed onto the field.  The players, all giants they looked, in their clumsy, padded suits, began a little practice play desperately and violently.  Susan could hear the quarter’s voice clear and sharp, “Nineteen-four-eighty-eight!”

“Hello, Miss Brown!” said a voice at her knee.  She took her eyes from the field.  Peter Coleman, one of a noisy party, was taking the seat directly in front of her.

“Well!” she said, gaily, “be you a-follering of me, or be I a-follering of you?”

“I don’t know!—­How do you do, Miss Thornton!” Peter said, with his delighted laugh.  He drew to Susan the attention of a stout lady in purple velvet, beside him.  “Mrs. Fox—­Miss Brown,” said he, “and Miss Thornton—­Mrs. Fox.”

“Mrs. Fox,” said Susan, pleasantly brief.

“Miss Brown,” said Mrs. Fox, with a wintry smile.

“Pleased to meet any friend of Mr. Coleman’s, I’m sure,” Thorny said, engagingly.

“Miss Thornton,” Mrs. Fox responded, with as little tone as is possible to the human voice.

After that the newcomers, twelve or fourteen in all, settled into their seats, and a moment later everyone’s attention was riveted on the field.  The men were lining up, big backs bent double, big arms hanging loose, like the arms of gorillas.  Breathless attention held the big audience silent and tense.

“Don’t you love it?” breathed Susan, to Thorny.

“Crazy about it!” Peter Coleman answered her, without turning.

It was a wonderful game that followed.  Susan never saw another that seemed to her to have the same peculiar charm.  Between halves, Peter Coleman talked almost exclusively to her, and they laughed over the peanuts that disappeared so fast.

The sun slipped down and down the sky, and the air rose chilly and sweet from the damp earth.  It began to grow dark.  Susan began to feel a nervous apprehension that somehow, in leaving the field, she and Thorny would become awkwardly involved in Mrs. Fox’s party, would seem to be trying to include themselves in this distinguished group.

“We’ve got to rush,” she muttered, buttoning up her coat.

“Oh, what’s your hurry?” asked Thorny, who would not have objected to the very thing Susan dreaded.

“It’s so dark!” Susan said, pushing ahead.  They were carried by the crowd through the big gates, out to the street.  Lights were beginning to prick through the dusk, a long line of street cars was waiting, empty and brightly lighted.  Suddenly Susan felt a touch on her shoulder.

“Lord, you’re in a rush!” said Peter Coleman, pushing through the crowd to join them.  He was somehow dragging Mrs. Fox with him, the lady seemed outraged and was breathless.  Peter brought her triumphantly up to Susan.

“Now what is it that you want me to do, you ridiculous boy!” gasped Mrs. Fox,—­“ask Miss Brown to come and have tea with us, is that it?  I’m chaperoning a few of the girls down to the Palace for a cup of tea, Miss Brown,—­perhaps you will waive all formality, and come too?”