“Then if you hold me to my promise I shall be forced to let you do it, though it is against my better judgment. Brayton has gone back on me.”
Wolcott’s face shone with joy. “It’s awfully good of you to give in. Can’t you come to the game? You’ll see that it isn’t so bad as they pretend.”
“Thank you for the invitation, but it is unnecessary,” said Mr. Lindsay, grimly. “I shall be there! And if I’m convinced in the course of the contest that you are risking life or limb, I shall take you out, Dr. Brayton or no Dr. Brayton.”
There was joy in the football clique on Monday morning when Wolcott returned with the good news. He joined in the practice once more that afternoon, and went into his game like a storage battery recharged, full of fire and dash and strength. The head coach and the trainer took his case to heart in their after-practice consultation, and the result was that the work of the last week was materially lightened. The last signal practice left the team fresh, vigorous, and eager for the fray.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIRST HALF
Mr. Lindsay sat in one of the upper rows of seats close to the cheering sections, and gazed with amazement at the streams of people pouring in through the gates and along the side of the white-checked rectangle. It was a beautiful sight in the bright sunlight of this clear, cold November day, the circle of sober buildings keeping dignified watch on the hillside, the slopes thronged by an impatient crowd, and the wide circumference of field animate with floating banners, gay-ribboned dresses, and eager, joyous, expectant faces. Around him on every side were merriment and youth and a fulness of vigorous, happy, hopeful life. Men whose schooldays lay a dozen years behind them hallooed to their mates over his shoulder; college boys revived school memories in his ears; at his knees sat the “kid brother” of some Seatonian, awed into silence by the importance of the occasion; while the boy’s elder sister, excited by the novel scene and less concerned for the outcome, chattered gayly with her escort. In these surroundings, with his antipathy to the whole proceeding strong within him, Mr. Lindsay felt like a survivor of a past generation, as isolated as a man who knows only his own language in the strange babel of a foreign port.
A few tiers below, the solicitous father caught sight of a fringe of gray beard appearing on either side of a round, fur-capped head. Here at last must be a kindred spirit, mourning with him this squandering of money, this waste of time, this wanton imperilling of young lives. But the fur cap revolved, and a merry, smiling face turned toward the seats above—the youngest, happiest, jolliest face in all the Seaton sections! Mr. Lindsay was discouraged. He lost hope of sympathy from this audience—more like Spaniards at a bull-fight than reasonable, civilized Americans.
From the hill beyond came the sound of a low-pitched staccato chant, growing gradually clearer till from behind the red-steepled building emerged a dark, compact line of advancing boys. It was the Seaton school marching to a man to support their team. They came slowly on, four abreast, planting the left foot to each letter as they spelled the school name, chanting their way around the field to the cheering sections. It was the chant of conquerors,—strong, hopeful, revealing and inspiring confidence. Mr. Lindsay thawed a little under the warmth of the general enthusiasm as he watched these stanch followers crowd to their seats.
“They evidently believe in their team,” he thought to himself, and he felt a natural touch of pride as he recalled the praises of Wolcott contained in those letters from Ware and Laughlin. The present scene threw a new light on their earnestness.
Meantime on the Hillbury side the band appeared, with the whole contingent of Hillburyites trooping after. They pushed on to their seats in silence, leaving to the music a free hand; but once established, their cheers rang sharp and clear across the field. Mr. Lindsay watched with admiring interest the four distant cheer leaders swinging their batons with identical stroke, and ruling the three hundred voices as a conductor rules an orchestra.