At first heads turned and faces scowled or grinned at the slim figure standing back up there outlined against the gray sky. Then a low voice started the words and others joined. One by one, then by dozens, the fellows arose to numbed feet, and the volume grew. Zo had chosen the school song. Perhaps it was no great composition, but the slow, tuneful music welled sweetly from his instrument, clear above the sounds of the field, and stilled at last the noisy triumph of the farther stand. The players heard it, too, and thrilled to it. By the time Zo had played it through once and started again every voice on the east side of the gridiron was singing the words. Solemnly, sweetly, the last verse fell over the field: “Sunny fields, in memory you stretch before my eyes. You are smiling at me under azure skies. I can see the river winding once again And the shadows moving slowly o’er the plain. Sunny fields of Broadmoor, back with you I’d be, Back among old comrades ever dear to me. Always I’ll remember, always I will praise Sunny fields of Broadmoor; happy, happy days.” The song ended, Zo’s bow held long on the last clear note; and as it died to silence, silence held the stands. Then a great burst of sound came: applause, hearty, sincere, and sympathetic, from across the wind-swept field; acclaim, ecstatic and passionate, from the home stand; a burst of sound that went on and on and grew higher and higher and presently became a thunderous repetition of one word: “_Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor!_” And down in front of the north goal, wearied and battered but believing again, eleven heroes dug their cleats on the four yards and wrested the ball from the enemy! CHAPTER XXVI THE RIGHT SORT Time was called and both teams ministered to casualties. Major Loring seized the opportunity to take out Demille and substitute Logan. Hoskins called in a new left tackle. Not quite two minutes remained when the whistle blew again, and Broadmoor was not yet out of the woods. Captain Buckley and Ike Boardman had conferred during the pause, and now Boardman shouted: “Let’s go, Broadmoor! Locke back! Forty-four, forty-eight, ninety-one!” Barry, a half-dozen strides from the nearer post and a full seven yards behind the goal-line, held his arms forth. The two lines smashed together as the ball shot back and Barry swung a leg through empty air. Logan, the ball hugged to his stomach, dived behind Haviland and crossbucked between Sinclair and Kirkland. But Hoskins was firm and less than a yard was gained. “Second down!” sung the referee. “About nine!” “Locke back! Make it good, Barry! Signals!” “Block it!” Hoskins’s captain limped along his line, slapping his men. “Block this kick, fellows! Let’s get that score! Get into it! _Fight!_”