The members of the Oakdale football team were gathering at the gymnasium to dress and prepare for the game. Singly and in groups they came hurrying in to open their lockers and drag forth suits, cleated shoes, shin guards, head pieces, nose protectors and other paraphernalia. Some were in high spirits, while others, as if impressed by the importance of the approaching contest, appeared somewhat serious and grim. Chipper Cooper, always volatile and lively, persisted in perpetrating some very bad puns, being finally given a call-down by Sile Crane, who was wearing an almost funereal face.

“Oh, cut it aout,” remonstrated Sile. “Yeou’ll make us all sick with yeour senseless slop. If yeou’ve got an idee it’s goin’ to be any picnic trouncin’ them Barville fellers this arternoon, yeou’re away off yeour base.”

Chipper’s retort was particularly atrocious. “I would not debase myself by such a thought,” he said.

Harry Hopper let fly a shoe, which Cooper deftly dodged. “You’ll be murdered some day if you don’t quit it,” declared Harry.

“It wouldn’t be murder,” said Chub Tuttle, carelessly spilling peanuts from his pocket as he flung his coat aside; “it would be a noble deed for the general public good. No jury would ever convict a feller for killing Coop in a frenzied moment, following one of his alleged witticisms.”

“The assassin sure would escape on the plea of temporary insanity,” laughed Rodney Grant.

“I tell yeou, fellers, we’ve got to play some if we trim Barville,” said Crane. “I’ve got it straight from Len Roberts that they’re goin’ to chaw us up.”

“In the name of a good old English poet, let them Chaucer,” snickered Cooper, flinging himself into a defensive attitude. “Come on, you base scoundrels; I defy you.”

“Roberts is a big wind-bag,” was the opinion of Jack Nelson. “He’s always blowing about what Barville is going to do.”

“But they’ve got a coach,” said Crane. “Last year we had one, but this season, without Roger Eliot to raise the spondulicks, we couldn’t git one. They’ve got some new players, too, that are said to be rippers. I tell yeou, boys, I’m worried.”

“It’s just as bad to worry as it is to be overconfident,” said Ben Stone, the captain of the eleven, appearing among them. “It’s my opinion they’ve been trying to get our goat by setting afloat a lot of hot air about the strength of their team and their wonderful new players. If we go onto the field feeling a bit shy of them, which is doubtless what they want, they will try to get the jump on us at the start. But we’re not going to let them work that trick. Has anyone seen Sage? I wonder where he is.”

Fred Sage, who was usually one of the first to be on hand, had not arrived, and when, a short time later, he still remained absent, the captain’s wonderment took on a touch of anxiety.

“Here, Hooker,” he called to Roy, who, as a substitute, was getting into his armor, “do you know anything about Sage? He isn’t around.”

“I’ve been wondering where he was,” confessed Hooker. “I haven’t seen him since I left him in front of his house this forenoon.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Jack Nelson maliciously, “he’s suffering from an attack of indigestion. Wild duck is pretty heavy food, you know.”

“Look out,” retorted Roy, “that you don’t have to eat crow yet.”

Another five minutes passing, and the quarterback failing to arrive, Stone decided to send out for him.

“Here, Tommy,” he called to Tommy Shea, the mascot of the team, “you go find Sage and tell him to get a move on. We must have our regular warming up before the game, and I’ll guarantee Barville is on the field now. I can’t see what’s happened to keep him away. Stir yourself, Tommy.”

As the little fellow dusted out of the gymnasium there came through the momentarily opened door the sound of a hearty Barville cheer, which, doubtless, proclaimed the advent of the visitors on the adjacent field.

“They must have plenty of confidence in their team,” said Bob Collins, “for they’ve certainly sent over a big bunch of rooters. People have been coming from Barville in all sorts of turnouts for the past two hours.”

“All the more gate money for us,” exulted the optimistic Cooper. “In fancy I can hear the merry jingle of their quarters. They can give us as many as they please, but we’ll give them no quarter to-day. Nevertheless, without Sage we’d be a quarter short, and we’d feel it before the end of the first half. Mercy! I surrender! Spare me!”

No one paid the slightest attention to him, however, which led him disgustedly to mutter something about casting pearls before swine.

In a short time Tommy Shea returned, followed closely by Sage, whose face was flushed and who betrayed some tokens of unusual excitement. At least, this was what the watchful Piper thought, and he became, if possible, more watchful than ever.

“Met him on the way, captain,” the mascot reported to Stone.

“You’re late, Fred,” said Ben sharply. “We’re ready to go out now, all but you. Anything the matter?”

“No—no, nothing the matter,” was the somewhat faltering answer, as Sage began ripping off his clothes, having given Tommy Shea the key to open his locker. “I had—some things to do at home, and I didn’t—I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Lame excuse,” whispered Piper to himself. “Something has happened, sure. He’s in a perfect stew.”

While Fred was hurriedly preparing for the field, Stone called the others around him and talked to them earnestly, laying out a plan of campaign for the first quarter. At first he addressed them all in a general way, after which he singled out individual members of the eleven and gave each one advice and instructions. Ere he had gone through the list Sage was completely dressed for the game and apparently drinking in the captain’s words, although to Piper it seemed that he listened with a distinct effort which betrayed a tendency of his mind to wander.

“Just a word to you, Sage,” said Stone in conclusion. “Keep things moving on the jump. Don’t waste any time over your signals when we’re on the offensive. I have an idea that Barville will try to rush us off our feet at the start, and we mustn’t let them do that. We’ll hammer them hard as we can with straight football to begin with, and hold back our trick plays for use in emergencies. Of course if we quickly get within striking distance of their goal, and they hold us for a down that doesn’t give us a proper gain, you may see fit to try a trick or to work the forward pass. Now come on, everybody; let’s go out with a snap and show that we’re alive.”

From the gymnasium to the players’ entrance of the field was only a short distance, and Ben led his sturdy followers at a swift pace. The visitors were practicing at one end of the field, watched and encouraged by the surprisingly large gathering of Barville supporters who had followed them to Oakdale. As the shocky-haired locals dashed out into the open space they were given a lusty cheer by the majority of the assembled spectators. At once two footballs were put into use by them, and they went at the work of warming up with commendable method and ginger.

It was a hazy autumn afternoon, the sky being overcast with a filmy veil, through which the sun shone with a muffled orange glow. A tempered southwest wind was blowing steadily, but not with sufficient vigor to give much advantage to the defenders of the western goal. For the spectators on the seats, light outer wraps were needed, even though the air was not crisp enough to make first-class football weather.

With their coach watching them closely, the Barville lads were making an impression by their snappy practice, in which short dashes, every man starting fast and running low, seemed to be a particular feature.

Stone took this in at a glance, even while he did not appear to give the rival team as much as momentary attention. It was a reminder, however, that for the past week he had striven constantly to drill into the heads of his teammates the necessity for rapidity in both assault and defence, and the advantage of hitting the opposing line low and hard.

Among the followers of professional sports there can be no such genuine loyalty and enthusiasm as that shown by the adherents of school and college teams; for, as a class, the supporters of such teams are, like the players, heart and soul in the game. In most cases the contestants they are backing and on whom they pin their hopes are known to them personally, which fact establishes between them such friendly personal relations as seldom exist between masses of spectators and professionals; and always a well-earned victory is a thing to be rejoiced over by the satisfied supporter of the triumphant team, like a piece of personal good fortune.

The referee for this game came from Clearport, and was equally acceptable and satisfactory to both teams, having demonstrated in other contests his absolute impartiality and fairness. At the proper moment he walked briskly out upon the field and held a low-spoken consultation with the two captains. A coin was tossed, and, Oakdale obtaining the choice, Ben took the western goal.

The cheering of the spectators sank to a murmur, and was followed by a few tense moments of silence as the youthful gladiators spread out over the outlined chalk marks and made ready for the kick-off. Barville had been given the ball, and the referee placed it carefully upon a little soft mound of earth formed by his own hands at the exact center of the field. A short distance away Copley, the fullback, who was to make the kick, balanced and steadied himself, his eyes fastened on the huge yellow egg. The referee retreated; the whistle sounded. With tensed muscles, the players crouched a bit, ready for the dash.

Copley advanced, quickening his steps. With perfect judgment, he came into position with the proper stride, swung his lusty right leg with vigor, and, following the plunk of his foot against the ball, the pigskin went sailing and soaring far into Oakdale’s territory.