There had been a good deal of singing and cheering during the absence of the teams, but now the uproar became positively deafening. Everyone stood up and shouted long and loudly and, if they had pennants, waved them. Bowles stood up too, but he didn’t shout, although he almost wanted to! Then a quick, sharp cheer broke forth from one side of the field, and a long, growly cheer floated back from the other, and the players came into sight again around the corner and went to their benches. And Bowles, watching eagerly, saw Master Hugh! But what a disreputable looking Master Hugh! Bowles almost dropped in his tracks! No wonder, indeed, that they called him “Hobo”! A pair of old gray summer trousers, a faded blue sweater, a diminutive cloth cap on the back of his head, and a pair of kicked-out tan shoes on his feet! Bowles groaned and was, oh, so thankful that her Ladyship was not there to witness the disturbing sight! And then others cut off his view and somewhere a whistle blew and the cheering began again and―― “Come on, Grafton! Let’s score now!” yelled a voice in Bowles’ ear, and an elbow dug sharply into his side and someone behind him sent his respectable derby over onto the bridge of his respectable nose. Bowles rescued his hat and gave his attention to the field. The ball was floating lazily aloft in the sunlight and under it the players were running together. Then it came down, a boy got under it and clasped it to his stomach, dodged this way, feinted that, was caught, escaped, ran a few yards and was pulled down. Bowles thought he could almost hear the thud of that body! “Extremely rough,” he murmured, “oh, very.” But after that he gazed, at first interested and then fascinated, and soon forgot whether football was rough or otherwise! His neighbor, supplying the unsought-for information that his name was Stiles, threw light on the endeavors of the conflicting groups briefly, succinctly, and Bowles began to fathom the philosophy of the game. Minutes passed. The play surged this way and that, the ball, however, straying never very far from the center of the gridiron. The teams were evenly matched, it seemed. Toward the end of the third period Mount Morris tried a difficult field-goal from the enemy’s thirty-eight yards, but the ball fell far short of the goal and came speeding back in the arms of Nick Blake. They seemed now to be doing more kicking, for the pigskin was frequently in air. Once Vail, playing back with Nick, fumbled a punt and a groan of horror arose from around Bowles, but the next instant Vail had shouldered a Mount Morris end aside and himself fallen on the bouncing ball.