The school turned out in force for the game. Though hidden within lay the expectation of defeat, the older boys were assured that the team had a chance, and gathered gladly, the gambler’s hope in their hearts. To the younger ones the spectacle was in itself all-attractive, to say nothing of the joy of sharing the new responsibility of supporting a team which belonged to them. If some, in ignorance of their privilege, needed persuasion, there was Mike McKay to furnish it, through the potent influence of himself and his crowd. Two urchins of the sixth, who had guilelessly announced their intention of seeing the Harvard-Dartmouth game instead, were threatened by Mike with excommunication; he would cut them off, from that time on, from all help on lessons from their classmates, unless they performed their duty. They were ready in their places. Papas and mammas were there, everybody’s sister and her girl friends; and swarms of recent graduates from across the Charles, vigorous aids to school cheer-leaders and stayers-up of faint hearts. An extended line of autos was stalled along the fence. Nor were the Newburyites behind in the demonstration. It was confidence (a stronger force than hope) that swelled their numbers and gave vigor to their voices. But the proudest, most important, most conspicuous figure was that of President John Smith. Increased in height by a brown derby, swelled in girth by a fat fur coat,—he had meant that the day should be cool,—with an alderman and two newspaper reporters in his train and the officials of the game his employees, he paced to and fro within the side-lines and enjoyed his greatness and the greatness of the day. Only a badge was lacking to complete happiness. In the reporters he had two friends on whose helpful services he could count. Alderman Skillen was a political power in President John’s district, with a son on the Newbury team. If only young Skillen would distinguish himself; if only Westcott’s would put up a stiff but not victorious game; if only the reporters could give the right turn to their laudatory phrases, and the alderman be properly impressed with the power and the influence and the potential value of the mainspring of it all,—the day might well mark the beginning of a strong upward twist in the life curve of John Smith. The suspicion whispered into his ear that morning by the Newbury captain that the renegade coach might have betrayed the game to Westcott’s had not so much as ruffled the surface of his optimism.