On the south stand the audience gathered itself into a group that looked very small against the long expanse of empty seats, and the players were lined up for an open practice game. But the audience paid for what was shown it. The songs that were to be sung at the big game were gone over with again and again, and the cheering was practised until throats grew dry and voices hoarse. During the five minutes’ intermission John North and several other coaches got together and joined their voices to the mighty chorus that swept across the field: “Hard luck for poor old Eli! Tough on the blue! Now, all together, Smash them and break through! ’Gainst the line of Crimson They can’t prevail. Three cheers for Harvard! And down with Yale!” “If we could only win the game by cheering,” said the head coach, “I think I’d be quite satisfied with things.” “We can come pretty near doing it that way,” answered John. “That sort of thing is worth at least two scores.” Later the procession formed again and marched back the way it had come, still singing, still cheering, the fellows dancing arm in arm from side to side across the dusty road. But the freshman contingent, or the greater part of it, didn’t return to the square then, but veered off, swaying, snakelike, across the turf to where their eleven was battling with the second squad. There they practically surrounded the players, so that from a little distance it looked as though an impromptu prizefight were going on, and cheered them incessantly and got in their way every moment and arose to wonderful heights of enthusiasm. Phillip and Chester pushed their way to near where Guy Bassett was playing right end on the second team and applauded his every act wildly. Nothing was too trivial to win their plaudits. If he rubbed his hands together they cheered madly; if he shoved his opponent they cried “Played, Bassett! Played, sir!” and if he ran their enthusiasm simply overpowered them and they waved their caps frantically and leaped into the air and hugged each other ecstatically. Their friends rallied to them in such numbers that when, presently, Guy got the ball on a double pass and promptly fumbled and lost it, the “three long Harvards and three times three for Bassett” which thundered forth might have been heard half a mile away. Guy bore it splendidly for awhile and they got little satisfaction, but the applause called forth by his fumble was the last straw; and, goaded to madness, he turned and charged the group of his too ardent admirers and scattered them. The crowd cheered, and when Phillip and Chester found each other again they deemed discretion the better part of valour and marched back across the river in single file, Chester imitating a bass drum and a cornet alternately and Phillip singing “Hard Luck” and cheering for everything he could think of.