I feel
almost indignant, even in the midst of my excitement over little Fred,
and would fain throw my arms round his brother's neck and whisper that
he must not take the matter to heart, and that the whole business is
terribly unjust.
Now comes another uproar, and this time from the opposite side of the
field. The Yale eleven have arrived and are stripping off their
jerseys. They career over the arena in dirt color and dark blue, while
the dark blue benches surge tumultuously. There is no more delay. The
umpire calls the game, and the two sides line up for action. I feel
Josephine, who is on my other side, clutch my arm and sigh. There is
only one object for her on the field, as I well know. She has been
trying to learn the rules from Sam for the last half hour (she doubts
my knowledge on such subjects nowadays), and I can see that she is
seeking in vain to concentrate her mind on her new-found information
and to shut out the vision of little Fred being borne off the field on
a litter. I confess that Horace Plympton's letter recurs to me for a
moment, but I shake myself and utter an inward "Pooh!" and haughtily
determine to view the contest dispassionately and from the standpoint
of a third person and a philosopher.
Harvard has won the toss and is to have the ball.
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