Mr. Lindsay sat in one of the upper rows of seats close to the cheering sections, and gazed with amazement at the streams of people pouring in through the gates and along the side of the white-checked rectangle. It was a beautiful sight in the bright sunlight of this clear, cold November day, the circle of sober buildings keeping dignified watch on the hillside, the slopes thronged by an impatient crowd, and the wide circumference of field animate with floating banners, gay-ribboned dresses, and eager, joyous, expectant faces. Around him on every side were merriment and youth and a fulness of vigorous, happy, hopeful life. Men whose schooldays lay a dozen years behind them hallooed to their mates over his shoulder; college boys revived school memories in his ears; at his knees sat the “kid brother” of some Seatonian, awed into silence by the importance of the occasion; while the boy’s elder sister, excited by the novel scene and less concerned for the outcome, chattered gayly with her escort. In these surroundings, with his antipathy to the whole proceeding strong within him, Mr. Lindsay felt like a survivor of a past generation, as isolated as a man who knows only his own language in the strange babel of a foreign port.

A few tiers below, the solicitous father caught sight of a fringe of gray beard appearing on either side of a round, fur-capped head. Here at last must be a kindred spirit, mourning with him this squandering of money, this waste of time, this wanton imperilling of young lives. But the fur cap revolved, and a merry, smiling face turned toward the seats above—the youngest, happiest, jolliest face in all the Seaton sections! Mr. Lindsay was discouraged. He lost hope of sympathy from this audience—more like Spaniards at a bull-fight than reasonable, civilized Americans.

From the hill beyond came the sound of a low-pitched staccato chant, growing gradually clearer till from behind the red-steepled building emerged a dark, compact line of advancing boys. It was the Seaton school marching to a man to support their team. They came slowly on, four abreast, planting the left foot to each letter as they spelled the school name, chanting their way around the field to the cheering sections. It was the chant of conquerors,—strong, hopeful, revealing and inspiring confidence. Mr. Lindsay thawed a little under the warmth of the general enthusiasm as he watched these stanch followers crowd to their seats.

“They evidently believe in their team,” he thought to himself, and he felt a natural touch of pride as he recalled the praises of Wolcott contained in those letters from Ware and Laughlin. The present scene threw a new light on their earnestness.

Meantime on the Hillbury side the band appeared, with the whole contingent of Hillburyites trooping after. They pushed on to their seats in silence, leaving to the music a free hand; but once established, their cheers rang sharp and clear across the field. Mr. Lindsay watched with admiring interest the four distant cheer leaders swinging their batons with identical stroke, and ruling the three hundred voices as a conductor rules an orchestra.

“They are better cheerers,” he was thinking,—the crowd across the field always seems to cheer the better,—“yes, they are certainly better cheerers, but our marching was more effective.” And while he was laughing softly to himself that he should thus identify himself with these youthful, misguided lunatics, a great roar rose about him at the sight of a score of strapping, brown-suited, red-legged wild men who came tumbling over the side ropes into the field. Here they divided, a knot of eleven following the ball in signal practice up the field, while the rest in red blankets and sweaters streamed across to the Seaton side-lines.

The Seaton volley of welcome was still reverberating when over the same side ropes leaped the Hillbury squad, looking massive in heavy, blue-lettered sweaters, and a knot of blue legs flashed down the field behind another ball. And now were heard cheers and counter cheers,—cheers of Hillbury by Seaton and of Seaton by Hillbury, cheers for both captains from both sides, cheers for the general cause, cheers to keep up the spirit, cheers of hope and of defiance. The practice squads broke up; big blue legs and big red legs met in the centre of the field; the gladiators shook each other by the hand, and turned to a wiry little man wearing a white jersey with a college letter upon it, who tossed a coin into the air and examined it as it lay upon the ground. Red-legs said something, the referee nodded, the captains hurried to their men, sweaters came off, headguards went on, the players scattered to their places. When the field cleared itself of sweater bearers, sponge holders, and water-pail carriers, the Hillbury side was singing its well-learned song of defiance which Seaton was straining its vocal chords to drown. The Hillbury tackle was propping the ball with a bunch of moist earth for the kick-off, and the Seaton eleven was sprinkled over the field with their backs to wind and sun.

Mr. Lindsay looked across the field at Laughlin and marvelled; he looked at Wolcott, whose place was nearer, and admired. Laughlin was ponderous and powerful, built for strength but also for slowness; Wolcott was alert, graceful even in his clumsy clothes, his face aglow with perfect health, his every movement showing physical strength, but the strength of the horse, not of the ox.

The referee lifted his arm: “Ready, Seaton?^[4] Ready, Hillbury?”

The captains cast a final look behind them and nodded. The referee’s whistle sounded. Davis, who kicked off for Hillbury, dashed at the ball and sent it flying up to the Seaton ten-yard line, speeding after it with the whole heavy Hillbury line. Buist caught the ball, dropped it, picked it up again, and twisted his way behind the backs a dozen yards down the field. Here he went down on the ball with half a dozen upon him, and the first scrimmage was on.

The shouts died on Seaton lips as the partisans waited for the first prophetic play. They could not cheer, for their hearts were in their throats, and no one regarded the cheer leaders, and the cheer leaders regarded only the lines poised for the spring. Would the Seaton attack penetrate? Would Hillbury’s strong line hold? Wolcott, resting on his knee, with eyes fixed on the ball, waited for the signal. He knew what it was to be, for the plan had already been made to send the first assault beyond him, not on Laughlin’s side, where it would be expected. At the first number of the signal he was on his finger-tips and toes. As the ball moved he shot forward, caught the heavy man opposite with full momentum just as the latter was getting under way, and forced him back upon the line half. When, an instant later, Buist came smashing into the hole with the one hundred and eighty pounds of bone and muscle known as Milliken driving behind him, Wolcott, abandoning his man, swung round to meet the back, and holding him up with the aid of Milliken and Read, swept him on yard after yard until the Hillbury men finally dragged them all to the ground together. For the fraction of a second the two elevens became two squirming heaps and a connecting link—a heap where the ball had been, a heap where it now was, and a trail of prostrate bodies marking the route of advance.

“Terrible, terrible!” thought Mr. Lindsay, as he gazed fascinated at the unintelligible scene. But the Seaton supporters thought it anything but terrible, for they cheered and cheered again in ecstasy at the ten-yard gain, while the heaps of bodies resolved themselves as by miracle into two lines of very vigorous men. At the next signal Wendt bucked the line beyond Laughlin, by which three yards were gained; and Milliken ripped through the narrow crack between Lindsay and Bullard, and falling his length beyond the line, made the first down. Then Jackson tried a quarter-back run to open up the line, and thanks to his interference, to his surprise and joy, got round the end and ran out a dozen yards down the field.

The play was now near the middle of the field, bringing the rear of the Seaton line for the first time within Mr. Lindsay’s line of vision. He saw Milliken receive the ball and leap at the line like a tiger springing on its prey. He saw the centre open and take him in, saw the struggling mass behind the Hillbury line and the pile that covered the ball three yards beyond; but he had not seen that it was the Seaton left guard who opened the way and made the play possible. Around him the spectators were exclaiming and chuckling with delight, and exchanging explosive praises of the irresistible Milliken. On the side-lines, however, where the experts were gathered, another name was mentioned first, the name of the Seaton guard who was “handling” his heavy man.

The team was going now with the momentum of success and hope. Buist drove his way through behind Laughlin. Wendt found a hole inside left end, Jackson called back his right tackle and sent him through the left side for a decided gain; then he brought back the left tackle, and apparently started a similar play for the other side. The interference charged hard and fought desperately as they struck the line, but the ball was not with them. Jackson, after pretending to pass to the tackle, had held it a moment and tossed it to Wendt, who sped through the centre unexpected, and with Wolcott at his side, and Read, the Seaton end, not far away, seemed for a moment likely to get by the last Hillbury back and score a touchdown. Wendt, however, slowed down to let Wolcott interfere, and a Hillbury pursuer overtook him and laid him low.

“Twenty yards now to a touchdown,” said the Harvard student on Mr. Lindsay’s right. “They’ll make it in about six downs if they can only hold the ball.”

Mr. Lindsay nodded and smiled. He still disapproved, but he was enjoying where he could not wholly understand and did not at all wish to enjoy. He turned to his friendly neighbor with a question on his lips, but before the question was out, the game again drew his whole attention and that of his neighbor. In some strange way the ball had slipped from the grasp of the Seaton back, and the quick Hillbury tackle had thrown himself upon it. The blue-stockinged back, who had been playing far in the rear, came running up to the Hillbury line, while Jackson turned and scampered back to the centre of the field. A groan ran along the Seaton benches; the ball was Hillbury’s!

“What a rotten fumble!” ejaculated the Harvard student. “Who made it, Bill?”

“Milliken,” snapped back the disgusted Bill. “He ought to be hung!”

On the field no one asked that question, but the men in the line said things under their breath; and sore at heart that the fruit of their toil should be lost just as it seemed within their grasp, turned discouraged but dogged to their defensive game. “Never mind, fellows,” rang out Laughlin’s voice. “We can hold ’em. Get into the game, every man. Watch the ball!” And they stooped to their places, determined to hold the ground they had gained.

The first attack was straight at centre, but the Seaton trio played low, and the Hillbury runner struck a wall and stopped short. Then came a double pass for an end run by Joslin, the speedy back; but Hendry, the Seaton tackle, burst through and drove the runner into Read’s arms with a loss of a yard. So Hillbury was forced to punt, Jackson got under the ball in the centre of the field, and was downed in his tracks by the Hillbury end.

Then began another series of short advances toward the Hillbury goal-line, through Laughlin, through Lindsay, Hendry through the other side, an attempt at an end run, a wing shift with Milliken plunging outside tackle, Hendry again, another delayed pass, left guard back, and straight hard smashes of backs through the centre. The result of the experimenting was that Wolcott’s side of the line was the more frequently called upon, especially the hole between guard and tackle. Hendry and Read did not always succeed in boxing their end. Wolcott sometimes failed to get his man where he wanted him; the Hillbury secondary defence often nullified his efforts; but for some reason Jackson found that here was the line of least resistance. On the defence no one held like Laughlin. On the attack he was always sure, always eager to do his own work and help out Bent, crushing his way like an ice-breaker through the line. Two yards behind Laughlin were always to be counted on with assurance. His very weight and strength and hardness made him terrible. Yet the gains through Wolcott were often greater. He blocked no one’s way; he made his hole and turned in it to drag the runner on; he got into plays for which he might have shirked the responsibility; he was where the ball was, where it was going to be the next instant, wherever his strength and help were needed, pushing and pulling and dragging and keeping his men on their feet.

They were on the ten-yard line now. The spectators around Mr. Lindsay were excitedly guessing on the distance yet to be covered, which some put at five yards, others at fifteen. On the Seaton side not a cheer was uttered. The whole student audience hung on the play in tense and eager silence. Hillbury was shouting full and strong and regular, “Hold! hold! hold!” which fell on the ears of the Hillbury champions like a rallying trumpet call. Hendry came flying from his post, took the ball from the quarter, and swung hard into the line, beyond the other tackle. Down he went without an inch of gain. Laughlin dropped back and drove Buist through Hall. “Three yards! The third down!”

“Hold! hold! hold!” Into these syllables the whole Hillbury cheering force was concentrating its strength and hope. The Hillbury line heard and gathered themselves together for a final desperate resistance. Wolcott heard and heeded not, for the signal was ringing in his ears, and he knew that the last responsibility was upon him. Laughlin was back once more, this time to play the shunting locomotive for Milliken. The track lay over the spot on which Wolcott was standing. Hendry did his work well. Wolcott’s shoulder was at Moore’s hip almost before Moore had moved; the tandem jammed its way into the narrow opening, over the line half-back, like a squadron of horse over a thin line of infantry, and down in a wild heap of friend and foe four yards farther on!

It was a first down with but three yards to the goal line!—three yards in three downs, an easy task for a strong line flushed with victory, which had already battered its way from the middle of the field. Wendt made a yard outside of right tackle in a cross buck. Then Hendry fell back for the ball, and the heavy wedge, with Laughlin at its apex, Hendry in the centre driven along by Buist and Milliken and Jackson pushing behind, piled the Hillbury defence on either side of its course as a snow-plough masses the snow right and left as it drives its way through a heavy drift. Hendry was yards across the goal-line when the wedge broke.

While Jackson was bringing out the ball and adjusting it for Bullard’s kick for goal, Wolcott with dry lips and panting breath, but joy unspeakable in his heart, was watching the antics of the Seaton audience, which danced and yelled and cheered and waved flags in a frenzy of delight. Somewhere in section D was his father, in what state of mind he hardly dared guess; but he remembered with relief that but few stops had been made on pretence of injuries, while not one on either side had left the field; and he fervently hoped that his anxious father was observing the scene of carnage without distress. As a matter of fact, Mr. Lindsay was at that moment thinking very little about carnage and very much of the possibility that Bullard would fail to kick the goal. The ball sailed between the tips of the goal-posts, the crowd shouted, the players scattered to their new places, and Mr. Lindsay resigned himself with surprising cheerfulness to a continuation of the brutal contest. Above him the enthusiastic Harvard men were extolling the Seaton line in general, and in particular the solid centre, where the big captain and “Beefy Bullard” and that green man Lindsay, “as quick as nine cats and strong as a bull,” held the line with an anchor that wouldn’t drag.

Seaton kicked off and Joslin of Hillbury got the ball and zigzagged back to the twenty-five-yard line. Thence Hillbury worked ahead a dozen yards and punted. Jackson, who received the punt, was too eager to get away, and fumbled. In an instant the Hillbury end was upon the ball. Now the bank of blue ribbons had something to cheer for, and the vehemence and volume and splendid evenness of the mighty chant which swept across the field put hope into the hearts of the blue, and suggested to the red that the first score might after all have been a mistake. Wolcott remembered Laughlin’s remark of the night before, that a punter and two good ends, with the help of a fumbling back on the other side, could beat the best line that ever played; and felt his heart sink. Had Hillbury detected the Seaton weakness? But Laughlin showed no sign of discouragement.

“Hold ’em, fellows, hold ’em! Stop ’em right here!” And the first charge was downed in a heap as it struck the line. The ball went back to Cates, the Hillbury quarter, who dashed toward the end of the line.

“Quarter! quarter!” yelled Laughlin, bursting through at Cates’s heels. The whole Seaton line poured after Cates. But Cates had held the ball only a moment, and shot it to Joslin, who darted for the other end of the line, where one of his backs and the end and tackle were in waiting. The Seaton end fell before the assault, and Joslin, running clear, raced down the field with Brooks, the Hillbury end, before him, and only Jackson between himself and the goal-line.

What happened then happened quickly. Jackson flung himself at the critical moment straight at the man with the ball. His arms enclosed three legs, two belonging to Brooks and one to the man with the ball. He went down with the two legs tightly clasped, but the one tore away; and Joslin, free and swift as an arrow, sprinted over the white chalk-line to the Seaton goal-posts.

A few minutes later, with the score six and six, Hillbury lined up for the third kick-off. Wolcott felt relieved as he saw the ball settle into Read’s grasp, for Read was safe. The ball was down on the thirty-yard line, and the heavy Seaton machine started immediately to hammer its way down the field. A delayed pass gave ten yards, a quarter-back run another ten, but the advance was mainly by steady driving of strong men in unison against a desperate, but yielding defence. Now on one side, now on the other, with Laughlin back, or Lindsay or Hendry locked in an irresistible interference with Milliken, Wendt, and Buist, the ball drew nearer the Hillbury goal. Now a swaying mass rolled its way through the struggling line as a steam shovel eats into a sandbank; now a narrow gap would open and a single man be dashed into it, as an express train into a tunnel.

Mr. Lindsay watched, fearful yet fascinated. What strength! what splendid unity of action! what perfection of training! The admiration for physical strength and vigor inherent in the Anglo-Saxon race, the love of a fair fight in an open field, was asserting itself in him. He apprehended something of the absorbing joy of the game. Here was a contest of men, not in jugglery and sword play, not at arm’s length and with dainty tricks of hand and wrist, but face to face and breast to breast, with foot-pounds counting double and weakness a sin.

Again the ball drew near the Hillbury goal. The half was nearly over; a score if made must come soon. On the fatal ten-yard line Jackson again fumbled, and though Buist fell on the ball, his quickness was of no avail, for it was a fourth down. With despair in their hearts the panting Seaton line saw the fruit of their labors wrested from them. Hillbury took the ball, Rounds fell back and waited with outstretched hands for the pass.

“Through on him now!” cried Laughlin. “Wolcott!”

In the last word was an appeal which wrung Wolcott’s heart. He had broken through in practice games and blocked kicks, but here it seemed impossible. Taking in the position of his adversary at a single glance, he riveted his eyes on the hands that held the ball, and waited tense as a coiled spring. As the Hillbury centre’s hands contracted on the ball, he leaped forward, caught Holmes by the left arm and jerked him around, and shot by toward the ball.

The pass was high. Rounds reached for it and drew it down into position for a punt. As he caught the ball Lindsay struck the quarter and bowled him over; as the ball rose Lindsay rose, met it squarely with his chest and sent it bounding beyond the goal-posts against the fence which separated the spectators from the end of the field.

The Seaton rushers had streamed through the broken Hillbury line at Wolcott’s heels, and without slackening speed raced for the ball; the Hillbury backs were no less quick. Together they dived for the ball, covering it in an instant under a heap of bodies which were still squirming when the referee’s whistle called a peremptory stop. Little by little the tangle was loosened. At the bottom lay Hendry and under Hendry the ball! The half closed a few minutes later with the score eleven to six.