But before the pater could rebuff this friendly overture, as in his present state of mind he felt inclined to, a roar of cheers swept up and down the field, and the speaker sprang to his feet, waving his slouch hat frantically. Out on the brownish-green field trotted eleven shock-headed youths clad in dirty, heavily padded mole-skins, cleated shoes, and canvas jackets, frayed and torn, but each with the great varsity "Y" on its breast. An oval brown ball was hurled and caught with, what seemed to the pater's inexperienced eye, wonderful swiftness, and then as the ball rolled along the ground each man took his turn, as it came near, in sprawling down on it in a most comical manner. Suddenly it was passed nearly thirty yards, straight as an arrow into the arms of a short, chunky youngster, with an extremely dirty face, who seemed carved out of a solid block. With almost a single movement--so deftly was it done--the ball was caught and poised in both hands for the tiniest fraction of a second. Then came a hollow thump as the dropped oval was punted. Up, and up, and out in a tremendous parabola, almost the length of the field it soared. "AA! AA!" howled the Yale tiers. "Get on to that punt! What's the matter with Teddie Larned?" The pater stared, at first incredulously, but sure enough that marvellous kicker was his own son Teddie, though disguised by the grime, the pads, and the tangled hair. It must have been the excitement around him which made the pater stand up and watch with all his eyes every sky-scraping punt that the dirty-faced boy continued to make, and by a mere accident all at once he found himself saying "AA!" as loudly as any one before he had been on his feet a minute. His companion was wild with excitement. "See that big chap?" he exclaimed, pointing out a young giant whose face looked like some monstrous mask, with its huge rubber nose-guard. "That's Bright, the centre rush. Ain't he a corker?" "Looks too fat," said the pater, critically. "Too fat, eh?" replied the other, excitedly. "Well, you just watch him play, and see if he's too fat. That little Larned's the one that's too fat. He punts all right, but a full-back ought not to be so round." "Not at all! Not at all!" hotly responded the pater, who, though he did not know a full-back from a goal-post, was not going to sit by and hear his only son maligned. "A _pull_-back should always be thickset! They--er--_pull_ better when they're like that. And--that's my son sir!" The Westerner choked until he was nearly black in the face. "Well, shake, old man, and we'll call it square," he said, finally, when he had recovered breath enough to speak. "Bright happens to be my son, and in spite of their fat I think our two boys won't disgrace us this day--eh?"