Then Payson got up, and more cheering followed, for the big, broad-shouldered man of thirty-two who faced them was a school idol. In his six years as football and baseball coach at Yardley, John Payson had turned out four winning teams on the gridiron and had done very nearly as well on the diamond. He had quick, sharp black eyes, a broad, strong jaw and an ease and grace of carriage that quite belied his two hundred and odd pounds. Payson spoke quietly and seriously and the hall was so still that you might have heard a pin drop. He agreed with the previous speakers that the outlook was bright, but reminded them that many a team with fine early season prospects had come a cropper before now. And then he repeated the captain’s call for candidates, for hard work, for self-sacrifice and devotion and for the whole-souled support of the student body. And then, as he turned away and the stilled audience burst into sound, the leader of the Banjo and Mandolin Club nodded his head and the strains of “The Years Roll On” broke into the tumult. Instantly every fellow was on his feet, singing the slow, sweet song: “The years roll on. Too soon we find Our boyhood days are o’er. The scenes we’ve known, the friends we’ve loved, Are gone to come no more. But in the shrine of Memory We’ll hold and cherish still The recollection fond of those Dear days on Yardley Hill.” Very reverently they sang it, and not many without a thrill and, perhaps, a moistening of the eyes. Many of the older boys could remember standing with heads bared to the cold November wind and singing it grandly after Yardley had gone down to defeat before her rival. All save the new boys had sung it at class day under swaying, many-hued lanterns and with the warm breath of June in their faces. If you are a Yardley man, young or old, you can never hear that song unmoved: “The years roll on. To man’s estate From youthful mold we pass, And Life’s stern duties bind us round, And doubts and cares harass. But God will guard through storms and give The strength to do His will And treasure e’er the lessons learned Of old on Yardley Hill.” The last strain died away, there was a moment of silence, and then caps were slipped onto heads, feet shuffled on the floor, settees were pushed aside and the fellows crowded toward the doors. Then down the old, worn stairway they went, talking and laughing a little subduedly, and out into a mild September night lighted by millions of twinkling white stars that seemed to shine down kindly as though sympathizing with the glow of exaltation, of courage and kindliness and patriotism, in all those boyish hearts. CHAPTER II TOWNE PLAYS A JOKE