"You've got to see Harvard swallow your old Tiger, George," he said one Friday. "After all, why not? You don't need to come out to the Alstons, although I'm not sure there would be any harm in that. Talk's about done, I fancy." George flushed. "Do you know I'd love to spill you again, Lambert? I'd like to bring you down so hard the seismographs would make a record." "Too bad we can't try to kill each other," Lambert said, regretfully. "Why not watch younger brutes?" "I've wanted it for days," George acknowledged. "I'll wire Squibs." George was perfectly sure that Squibs knew nothing, for he wasn't socially curious, and Betty would have hesitated to talk about what had happened even to Mrs. Squibs, yet he was conscious, after the first moment of meeting, of a continued scrutiny from Squibs, of a hesitancy of manner, of an unusually careful choice of words. He had small opportunity to test this impression, for it was noon when he reached the house in Dickinson Street, and there were many of the tutor's products in the dining-room, snatching a cold bite while they roared confused pessimism about the game. "You're going to the side-lines," Squibs said when they had climbed the ramp to their section of the stadium. "I'd be in the way," George objected. Bailly stared at him. "George Morton on a football field could only be in the way of Harvard and Yale." George experienced a quick, ardent wish for thick turf underfoot, for a seat on the bench among players exhaling a thick atmosphere of eager and absorbed excitement. So he let the tutor lead him down the steps. Squibs called to Green, who was distrait. "What is it, Mr. Bailly?" "I've got Morton." Green sprang to life. "Mr. Stringham! An omen! An omen!" He met George at the gate and threw his arms around him. Stringham hurried up. Green crowed. "I believe we'll lick these fellows or come mighty close to it." "Of course you'll lick them, Green. Hello, Stringham! May I sit down?" "The stadium's yours," Stringham said, simply. As he walked along the line of eager players, smothered in blankets or sweaters, George caught snatches of the curiosity of youth, because of nervousness, too audibly expressed. "Who's the big fellow?" "That? Longest kicker, fastest man for his weight ever played the game. George Morton--the great Morton." "He never played with that leg! What's the matter with his leg? Football?" George caught no answer. He sat down among the respectful youths, thinking whimsically: "The war's so soon over, but thank God they can't forget football!" XXV At the very end of the first half, when the Princeton sections experienced the unforeseen glow of a possible victory, George caught a glimpse of Lambert and Wandel close to the barrier, as if they had left their places to catch someone with the calling of time. Just then the horn scrunched its anxious message. George called. "Lambert Planter!" Stringham paused, grinning. "Come over here, you biting bulldog."