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.