When the train drew into the station, the band was hammering away at a blood-stirring tune. When the train stopped, the great crowd of young men and boys presented a perfect sea of upturned faces beneath the flaring light of the torches. Blue was everywhere. It was Yale's great day, and all New Haven wore the color.
The train stopped. Then there was a fierce swaying and surging of the crowd, a flutter of flags, followed by a mighty cheer that was like a savage yell of joy over the downfall of a defeated and slain enemy.
How they shouted for Yale! How they swayed and surged! How like lunatics they were!
The sound of the band was drowned, and not a strain of music could be heard. The musicians continued to play, but they might have saved their breath.
The crowd knew well enough that the eleven would be on the smoker. That was the car in which the victors could disport themselves as hilariously as they pleased.
The smoker began to discharge its passengers. Paul Pierson was the first to get off, and he was followed closely by a stream of Yale men.
The general cheering had died down, but almost every man who stepped from the train was greeted in some peculiar manner.
"What's the matter with Yale?" howled a voice.
Then a thousand throats seemed to roar back:
"She's all right! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! Yale!"