The sky was colourless, the earth dun. Nature was in a mood of somberness and showed no favouritism; neither crimson nor blue was included in her colour scheme. But within the crowded inclosure the scene was brightly tinted. The upward sloping backgrounds were dull and sad enough, to be sure――gray and brown, and black; but against them everywhere, from corner to corner, from top to bottom, trembled specks of crimson and blue like roses and gentians fluttering in the wind. Nearer at hand the blossoms resolved themselves into flags, ribbons and bouquets. Even the score-cards added their touches of colour, while thousands of bright red megaphones and hundreds of toy crimson balloons bobbed and swayed. The north stand was darkly cerulean from end to end; the south stand warmly, deeply red; while the end tiers owned allegiance to Harvard save where, here and there, a Yale banner flaunted defiantly like a sapphire set amidst rubies. There was sound as well as colour. Thirty-four thousand voices arose in talk and laughter, song and cheer. Near the centre of the south side was a table. On the table stood the junior with the crimson megaphone. In front of him was the band, increased in numbers since its last appearance, and beyond the band, stretching upward and away to the sky line, was the cheering section. When the megaphone waved the band played and a thousand voices sang. After the songs came cheers, stately, thunderous, roared out from thousands of lusty throats. Across the field, on the north side, every vocal challenge was accepted. Yale sang and shouted her slogans incessantly. Her numbers were fewer, but there were strong lungs behind the deep blue banners, and when a handful of blue-stockinged warriors ran into sight it was as though New Haven and not Cambridge was the scene of battle. The throngs at the entrances had thinned out now, and numbed fingers were drawing watches from pockets hidden under many thicknesses of coats and mufflers. And then onto the rectangle of faded turf trotted a little squad of men in nice new black sweaters adorned with crimson H’s, and pandemonium broke loose. And when, after many minutes, comparative quiet settled over the scene, a whistle blew shrilly, and Harvard and Yale were again at battle. It is safe to say that of that host of onlookers there was only one who did not see the Yale leftguard send the ball corkscrewing to Harvard’s fifteen-yard line and into the arms of the Harvard captain. John North, watching from the side line, saw it; David Meadowcamp, sitting beside his father and for once wide awake, saw it; Chester and Guy, enthroned half-way up the cheering section, saw it; Everett Kingsford saw it; Miss Mildred Wayland, who sat beside him; and the obliging Muir; and Kingsford’s mother; and his sister Betty. The one who did not see it was Phillip. He was looking at Betty.