And again it must have been the excitement of the game, for the dignified and somewhat exclusive Mr. Larned found himself shaking hands with a total stranger as if he had been a life-long friend. All his bad temper had disappeared. He was aglow with excitement; the most delightful little thrills ran up and down his back, while an irresistible impulse to shout had taken possession of him. "This is your first game, isn't it?" Mr. Bright questioned. But just then came another punt, and the pater found it much easier to stand up and yell "AA!" than to answer any such searching questions. Then all further conversation was made impossible by a torrent of cheers from the Princeton tiers, and eleven other men, with the same grimy, weather-beaten costumes, and the same businesslike air of deadly earnestness, spread across the field and went through similar preliminaries. Only _their_ stockings were of a barber-pole pattern, with alternate rings of orange and black instead of a uniform blue, while a large orange "P" blazed on every breast in place of the Y. And now there was no controlling the audience. Orange and black banners were confronted by yards of Yale blue. Yellow chrysanthemums glared at bunches of violets and bachelor's-buttons, while the wearers--men, women, and children--sent out volleys of cheers that made the grand stand shake. The pater and his newly found friend were on their feet with the rest. Near by was a crowd of Yale "rooters," as Mr. Bright graphically termed them, shouting a rhythmic cheer containing too many x's and other bewildering Greek consonants for the pater, while he invariably added an extra "Rah!" to the regulation cheer. But to his satisfaction he found that not even the deep-voiced Bright could shout "AA!" with more earnest emphasis and volume, and he fell back on that as his strong point. Suddenly there is silence, a warning whistle blows. Yale has the ball, and the forwards group themselves in a curious zigzag formation, awaiting the kick off. The short and chunky Teddie takes a run, his foot swings and strikes the ball with what seems hardly more than a gentle touch, but the oval is spinning clear down to the other end of the field, followed by the terrible rush of the whole Yale team. It is caught by a running Princeton man, who, with a swerve of his body, avoids the spring of one runner, hurls another aside with the "straight-arm," and comes tearing down the field like a deer. A tremendous shout from the wearers of the orange and black masses is bitten off with surprising abruptness. For Teddie smashes straight through the interference, and with a lightning-like dive, which there is no evading, tackles the runner just about the knees and hurls him headlong. In a flash the lined-up elevens are facing each other, and the fight is on.