"And see," she said, "look--they are going to drag the team down town in the tally-ho." Through the window he saw the throng. His face at the pane was recognized and a cheer rose that prompted the girl to draw back, blushing. From where she stood at one side she could see a broken line of the crowd. "Oh, look, John!" she cried, "there's that dirty old man again. He's been drinking--the police drove him away before." He turned in the direction of her gaze, then drew away instantly from the window. "What's the matter?" she asked. His face was pale and his mouth was set in a straight line. "Nothing," he replied quickly. "Come----" and started toward the door opening upon the now deserted field. She followed him unquestioningly. On the porch she said: "Aren't you going on the tally-ho with the team?" "No," he replied, "I don't like being made a fool of. There's a gate over there on Cass Avenue. We'll go out that way and they won't see us." "But, John----" "I don't want to ride down town in state," he complained, testily. "I'd rather be with you. I shall have to be with them until train time. Now, I'd rather be with _you_." And he looked down at her and smiled. By a devious route they finally reached the Campus Martius and at the little door of a big Woodward Avenue hotel he left her, for she had told him there would be friends awaiting her there with whom she would take dinner later. "At the train, dear?" she said, as he opened the door for her. "Yes. Good-bye till then." She followed his great figure with her eyes and saw it disappear in the crowd below. Then she turned and passed down the narrow corridor from the "ladies' entrance." II It had been a glorious day. The first touch of winter was in the air, clear, crisp, and set the blood a-tingling. "Ideal football weather," the sporting writer of the _Journal_ had called it in the early afternoon edition where, with the wisdom of his species, he had sought to forecast the game's result. In honor of the occasion a gracious citizenry had swathed Jefferson and Woodward Avenues in bandages of maize and blue, and all day long the small boy had been as active as though it were the fourth of July rather than the fifth of November. And now in the evening, the older portion of the citizenry withdrew, and the theatres, the lobbies of the prominent hotels, the clubs, and all the places of public meeting, were turned over, unconditionally, to youth. A kindly disposed commissioner of police had instructed his men to be lenient. "Boys will be boys," he said to the captain on night duty at the Central Station, as he left the office. "But what about the _girls_?" inquired the captain with a twinkle in his own eyes that was almost youthful. "Well--they will be, too--sometimes," the commissioner replied.