Such a day as it was for the game! Quite perfect from the spectator’s point of view; a little bit too warm, perhaps, judged by the player’s standard; a day of days however you looked at it. The sky was blue overhead and faded to gray toward the horizon where an autumn haze brooded above the earth. The sun was gently warm, and the turf, which had retained much of its summer green in spite of frosts, was dry and springy underfoot. From the flagstaff over the grand stand the big blue flag with the vivid white Y hung lazily, for never a sign of a breeze stirred it. The stands were filled by the time the two teams trotted out to warm up for the fray, and the Greenburg Band, a cheerful blotch of scarlet in the midst of the somber-hued bank of spectators, was brazenly crashing out a two-step. Inside the ropes was a line of settees on which sat the substitutes, the members of the Second Team――little badges of blue ribbon adorning their coats――and other privileged persons. Andy Ryan, the little red-haired trainer, was there, and Paddy, the rubber, with a fine assortment of head guards and extra shoes and extra laces and electric tape and two big carboys of spring water and other necessary articles. In a big pile lay the blankets, with an extra football or two reposing beside them. Cowles, looking nervous and excited――it had been a hard and busy week for the manager――strode by with his big pad of paper in hand. Mr. Payson, talking to the stranger who had aroused Kendall’s curiosity, came on and seated himself at the end of the row of benches. Then around the corner of the stand trotted the Broadwood team. Under or over the ropes they went, bunched themselves into two squads and set diligently to work. They looked a pretty good lot of fellows; big, happy, trained to the moment. From across the field came a mighty Broadwood cheer. An instant later it was Yardley’s turn to applaud, for some thirty blue-stockinged youths dribbled onto the turf, Dan leading, peeled off their sweaters and set to work. Only one boy was left out of the preliminary practice, and he pulled a blanket from the pile and seated himself on the bench. It was Arthur Thompson. Five minutes or so of signal work and punting, and then the officials sauntered on, one, a chubby little man in a faded purple-and-white sweater and a pair of stained flannel trousers, called the captains to him, a coin went spinning up into the sunlight, three heads bent over it and all save the players who were to begin the game left the field. Payson and Dan conferred a moment and then the opposing armies fell into position. Broadwood had won the toss and Yardley had the ball. “Ready, Broadwood? Ready, Yardley?” The whistle piped merrily. Ridge stepped forward with two long strides, the ball sped away down the field, turning over and over in its flight, and the Yardley players leaped forward. The game was on.