Men were thumping each other on the back. Some had smashed their hats over other persons’ heads. Others had broken their canes from much exuberant pounding on the floors of the stands.

Everyone was yelling. On one side there was a forest of blue flags waving up and down, sideways, around in circles. Pretty girls were clinging to their escorts and laughing hysterically. The escorts themselves scarcely noticed the said pretty girls, for they were gazing down on the field—the field about which were scattered eleven players in blue, and eleven in dull red, all motionless now, amazed or joyful, according to their color, over the feat of Andy Blair.

On the Harvard stands there was glumness. The red banners slumped in nerveless hands. It had come as a shock. They had been so sure that Yale could not score—what matter if the Crimson could not herself—if she could keep the mighty Bulldog from biting a hole in her goal line?

But it was not to be. Yale had won. There was no time to play more. Yale had won—somewhat by a fluke, it is true, but she had won nevertheless. Flukes count in football—fumbles sometimes make the game—for the other fellow.

“Oh, you Andy Blair!”

“It’s a touchdown!”

“Yale wins!”

“Yale! Yale! Yale!”

Some one started the “Boola” song, and it was roared out mightily. Then came the locomotive cheer.

Slowly Andy got up from behind the Harvard goal line. The other player who had tackled him, but too late, himself arose. His face was white and drawn, not from any physical pain, though the fall of himself and Andy had not been gentle. It was from the sting of defeat.

“Well—well,” he faltered, gulping hard. “You got by me, old man!”

“I—I had to,” gasped Andy, for neither had his breath yet.

The other players came crowding up.

“It’ll be the dickens of a job to kick a goal from there with that wind,” spoke the Yale captain. “But we’ll try it.”

The whistle ending the game had blown, but time was allowed for a try at kicking the ball over the crossbar. A hush fell over the assemblage while the ball was taken out and the player stretched out to hold it for the kicker. The referee stood with upraised hand, to indicate when the ball started to rise—the signal that the Harvard players might rush from behind their goal in an attempt, seldom successful, to block the kick.

The hand fell. There was a dull boom. The ball rose and sailed toward the posts as the Harvard team rushed out. And then fate again favored Yale, for a little puff of wind carried the spheroid just inside the posts and over the bar. The goal had been kicked, adding to Yale’s points. She had won.

Once more the cheers broke forth, and Andy’s team-mates surrounded him. They slapped him on the back; they called him all sorts of harsh-sounding but endearing names; they jostled him to and fro.

“Come on, now!” cried the Yale captain. “A cheer for Harvard! No better players in the world! Altogether, boys!”

It was a ringing tribute.

And then the vanquished, tasting the bitterness of defeat, sent forth their acclaim of the lads who had bested them.

Andy found himself in the midst of a mad throng, of which his own mates formed but a small part, for the field was now overflowing with the spectators who had rushed down from the stands.

Some one pushed a way through and grabbed Andy by the hand.

“You did it, old man! You did it!” a frantic voice exclaimed. “I give you credit for it, Andy!”

Andy found himself confronting Chet.

“I told you we’d win,” answered Andy, with a laugh.

“Yes, but you never said you were going to do it yourself,” spoke Chet, ruefully.

“Come on, fellows, up with him!” called the quarterback, and before Andy could stop them they had lifted him to their shoulders, while behind the students had formed themselves into a queue to do the serpentine dance.

Cheer after cheer was given, and then the team passed into the dressing rooms, and into comparative quiet. Comparative quiet only, for the players were babbling among themselves, living the game over again.

“And to think that a substitute did it, after we’ve thought ourselves the whole show all season,” groaned one of the regulars.

“Oh, well, it was just an accident,” said Andy, modestly.

“A mighty lucky accident for Yale, my friend!” exclaimed Holwell. “May there be more of such accidents!”

Back in the gymnasium, later, after a refreshing shower, Andy managed to get away from the admiring crowd, and finding Chet took him to his room. Dunk was there before them.

“This is a great and noble occasion!” he cried, as Andy came in. “I’m proud of you, my boy! Proud! Put her there!”

Andy sent his hand into that of his roommate with a resounding whack.

“We’ve got to celebrate!” cried Dunk. “The freshman football season is over. You break training. You’ve got to celebrate!”

“I don’t mind—in a mild sort of way,” laughed Andy.

“Oh, strictly proper—strictly proper!” agreed Dunk.

“I think I’d better be getting back,” remarked Chet.

“No, stay and see the fun,” insisted Dunk, and Chet agreed to do so.

There came a rush of feet along the corridor, and some one whistled “See the conquering hero comes!”

“There are some of the fellows now!” cried Dunk. “Oh! this is great. We must make this a noteworthy occasion. We must celebrate properly!” he was getting quite excited, and Andy began to worry somewhat, for he did not want his roommate to celebrate in the wrong way, and there was some danger lest he might.

“Where is he?”

“Lead me to him!”

“Oh, you Andy Blair!”

Bob, Ted and Thad came bursting into the room, which would not hold many more.

“Shake!” was the general command, and Andy’s arm ached from the pump-handle process.

“What are you going to do?” asked Ted.

“We’re going to eat!” cried Dunk. “This is on me—a little supper by ourselves at Burke’s.”

“Count us in on that!” cried some one out in the corridor, and Mortimer Gaffington and some of his cronies shoved their way into the room. “We want to have a share in the blow-out! Congratulations, old man!” and he pumped Andy’s arm.

“Oh, what a night we’ll have!” cried Clarence Boyle.

“The wildest and stormiest ever!” added Len Scott. “Yale’s night!”

“Got to go easy, though!” cautioned Dunk.

“Oh, fudge on you and being easy!” laughed Mortimer. “This thing has to be done good and proper. Come on, let’s go out. We’ll smear this old town with a mixture of red and blue.”

“That makes purple,” laughed Dunk.

“No matter!” cried Mortimer. “Come on.”

Andy could not very well refuse and a little later he found himself with some of the other football players, at a table in Burke’s place.

The air was blue with smoke—veritable Yale air. There was laughter, talk, and the clatter of glasses on every side. The evening wore on, with the singing of songs, the telling of stories and the playing of the game all over again. It was such a night as occurs but seldom.

Andy noticed that Dunk was slipping back into his old habits. And, as the celebration went on this became more and more noticeable.

Finally, after a rollicking song, Dunk arose from his place near Andy and cried:

“Fellows—your eyes on me. I’m going to propose a toast to the best one among us.”

“Name your man!”

Dunk was thus challenged.

“I’ll name him in a minute,” he went on, raising his glass on high. “He’s the best friend I’ve got. I give you—Andy Blair!”

“Andy Blair!” was roared out.

“Stand up, Andy!”

He arose, a glass of ginger ale in his hand.

“We’re goin’ drink your health!” said Dunk.

“Thank you!” said Andy.

“Then fill up your glass!”

“It is filled, Dunk. Can’t you see?”

“That’s no stuff to drink a health in. Here, waiter, some real ale for Mr. Blair.”

“No—no,” said Andy quickly. “I don’t drink anything stronger than soft stuff—you know it, Dunk.”

For a moment there was a silence in the room. Andy felt himself growing pale.

“You—you won’t drink with me?” asked Dunk slowly.

“I’d like to—but I can’t—I don’t touch it.”

“He’s a quitter!” cried Mortimer, angrily, from the other side of the table. “A rank quitter! He won’t drink his own toast!”

“Won’t you drink with me, Andy?” asked Dunk, in sorrowful tones.

“In soft stuff—yes.”

“No, in the real stuff!”

“I can’t!”

“Then, by CÆsar, you are a quitter, and here’s where you and I part company!”

Dunk crashed his glass down on the table in front of Andy, and staggered away from his side.