Viewland’s line was heavier than Fardale’s, and the appearance of the visiting team was such as to give the impression that it would be able to batter the cadets down by sheer weight and brawn. But Fardale’s men were in fine condition, their training not being too fine, and they were due to put up a better fight than the casual and uninformed observer might think possible.
The officials were on hand, the referee wearing a red sweater. On one side of the field were two men with stakes, and a line that permitted them to be set five yards apart.
The two teams scattered out over the field, the Viewland backs retiring to their goal-line, with the exception of the quarter.
Then there was a pause, as a discussion rose over something, and a boy, with a pail of water, trotted onto the field. He was called by several players, and plunged a huge sponge into the water-pail, letting the water run from the sponge into the mouths of the players. One fellow grabbed the dripping sponge and rubbed it over his face. Then the boy trotted off.
A player tore off some kind of head-gear and flung it aside. The ball had been placed on the spot in the center of the field.
At this moment the Fardale crowd gave the regular cheer, ending with Viewland three times shouted. Not to be outdone, the thirty Viewland rooters promptly retorted with their cheer, ending with "Fardale! Fardale! Fardale!"
This was a little bit of courtesy that was intended to show that the game was for square sport and there was no ill-will.
There was a hush, and then the whistle sounded.
"They’re off!" cried a voice.
The Fardale full-back advanced toward the ball, swung his muscular leg, and booted the oval far into Viewland’s territory.