Most of the fellows are terribly nervous to-night. They go around as though they were looking for something, and would cry if they didn’t find it soon. And the trainer is the worst of all. Brattle, the captain, is fine, though. He isn’t any more nervous than an alligator, and has been sitting _still all the evening_, talking with a lot of the old graduates about the game. Once he came in the writing-room, where I’m sitting, and asked what I was doing. When I told him, he smiled, and said to tell you that if anything happened he’d look after my _remains_ himself! Maybe he thought I was nervous. But if I am, I’m not the only one. Gates is writing to his mother, too, at the other table. Give my love to Will and Bess. Tell Will to send my old skates to me. I shall want them. There is fine skating on Fresh Pond, which, by the way, is a lake. We’re ordered off to bed. I guess some of us won’t sleep very well. I’m rather excited myself, but I guess I’m tired enough to sleep. I’ll write again when I get back to college. With bushels of love to all, Yours affectionately, TOM. III THE “ARRIVAL” Jimpson sat on the ground, and watched with breathless interest two charging, tattered, writhing lines of men. Jimpson felt a good deal like an outcast, and looked like a North American Indian. Only legs and face were visible; the rest of Jimpson was enveloped in a big gray blanket with barbaric red borders. Some two dozen counterparts of Jimpson sat or lay near by, stretching along the side-line in front of the Harvard section of the grand stand. Behind them a thousand enthusiastic mortals were shouting pæans to the goddess of victory, and, unless that lady was deaf, she must have heard the pæans, however little she approved of them. The most popular one was sung to a well-known tune: [Illustration: Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian.] “As we’re strolling through Fifth Avenue With an independent air, The ladies turn and stare, The chappies shout, ‘Ah, there!’ And the population cries aloud, ‘Now, aren’t they just the swellest crowd, The men that broke Old Eli at New Haven!’” And a mighty response swept across the field from where a bank of blue rose from the green of the field to the lighter blue of the sky. It was a martial air, with a prophecy of victory: “Shout aloud the battle-cry Of Yale, Yale, Yale! Wave her standard far and high For Yale, Yale, Yale! See the foe retreat before us, Sons of Eli, shout the chorus, Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale!” Harvard and Yale were doing battle once more, and twenty thousand people were looking on. The score-board announced: Harvard, 4; Yale, 0. Yale’s ball. 15 minutes to play.