“Like time,” responded Louis promptly and concisely. “It’s all puckered up and looks worse than the hole.”
“Then what can I do?” asked Max desperately. “I never could sew it up, even if I had the tackle; and it can’t go as ’tis, for ’t would tell the whole thing. If I only had another fatigue coat! Help me out, there’s a good fellow, for you’re in it as badly as I am.”
“Let’s see,” said Louis, raising himself on his elbow to contemplate the task before him; “my sister mends her gloves with plaster; why not doctor up your coat the same way?”
“Good scheme!” said Max approvingly, as he dived into his pocket for a tiny silver case.
Then, possessing himself of the one pair of scissors which the room afforded, he settled himself to his novel tailoring with such good success that he was enabled to put in a prompt appearance at the breakfast-table, with but little trace of his adventure of the previous night.
It was the unvarying custom of the school to have the colors raised on the armory, every morning at the hour for guard-mounting; but on this particular morning, the eyes of the early stragglers about the grounds were met by a new feature in the landscape. From the top of the flagpole on the armory, a flag was already waving in the morning wind; but instead of the familiar stars and bars of the national tricolor, there flaunted a huge blue cambric banner, inscribed in golden letters with the legend: ’92 AND ’94. The new colors were promptly hauled down, but not before most of the cadets had gathered around the armory to look and laugh, and speculate as to the perpetrators of the joke; but neither the boys’ speculations, nor the doctor’s efforts to discover the offenders, ever succeeded in bringing to light the mystery of the midnight expedition of the loyal juniors.
The long-anticipated Saturday before Thanksgiving was a cold, clear, bracing day, as if especially designed for the annual football match. According to the regular habit of the school, lessons were over at eleven that morning, and a light lunch was served immediately afterwards. Promptly at two o’clock the procession formed in front of the armory, headed by the school band who banged and tooted away in their best style. Back of them walked the two elevens, gorgeous in their uniforms, the white jerseys of one side adorned with a huge scarlet F. on the chest, while the others wore a blue letter modestly surrounded with a halo of little golden stars. This impressive body was followed by the twenty or thirty cadets who had no active part in the proceedings, but went merely in the light of spectators. Lieutenant Wilde and Mr. Boniface, walking arm in arm, brought up the rear with befitting solemnity. To the inspiring strains of “Marching through Georgia,” the line moved off, turned down the hill and marched twice around the doctor’s house, while Mrs. Flemming and Gyp watched them from the front piazza, and Maggie O’Flarity, on the back porch, saluted them with a flourish of her broom and poker. Then, with the doctor in their ranks, they started for the ball-field, while the band, with a delightful impartiality, changed their tune to “See, the Conquering Hero comes!” And the small village boys that garnished the fence, waved their shabby hats in pleased anticipation.
The doctor and Lieutenant Wilde took up their positions as umpire and referee, for out of love for their boys they cheerfully resigned themselves to the somewhat doubtful enjoyments of these honorary offices; the spectators arranged themselves as best they could, and the players took their places for the struggle. The seniors realized that this was their last chance to cover themselves with glory, so far as football was concerned, and Leon was burning with a determination to efface the memory of his recent disgrace; while, on the other side, the juniors, secure in their faithful training, viewed their opponents with scorn, and encouraged their young allies to do their best. Louis squared his shoulders, and stood very straight, with the consciousness that his blue and gold finery was extremely becoming, and Max tossed a stray pine cone at the nearest village urchin, a tow-headed youth who dodged and chuckled in recognition of this especial mark of attention.
At a signal from the doctor, the play began and then—But why describe all the details of the game to an audience of American boys who know and love it so well, or to those older and wiser—and duller heads, to whom the whole subject is uninteresting, and its mysteries a sealed book? It is enough to tell that there were the usual groupings of wildly excited lads, the usual mad races across the field, the usual wild onslaughts of the rush line. Again and again Leon caught the ball from the snapper and passed it on to Paul for a run, again and again the fine punting of Max saved the game for the juniors; but the intermission had come and gone, and the issue was doubtful. Slowly, as if reluctant to leave the busy scene, the sun dropped towards the western hills, and the battle was in favor of the seniors. The critical moment had come, and the teams lined up for a scrimmage, with the ball far towards the junior goal. Very quietly and steadily Jack Howard took the ball, though his face was white with the intense excitement of the moment, as he waited for the captain’s signal to play.
“One—four—three!” commanded Paul.