"Sh—! here they come," Bob warned as a prolonged cheer announced the arrival of the teams.
Everybody stood up and shouted. And then a tense silence followed, as the first kick-off sent the pigskin hurtling into the air.
Any one who has seen a football game knows how perfectly silly it is to attempt a description of it. Polly and Lois could both tell you all the rules and explain the most intricate maneuvers, if you gave them plenty of time to think it out; but with the actual plays before them, they were carried away by excitement and gave themselves up completely to feeling the game, rather than understanding it. They watched the massed formation with breathless anxiety, thrilled at every sudden spurt ahead which meant a gain; groaned when the advance was stopped by one of those terrifying tackles, and experienced the exultant joy only possible when the pigskin sails unchecked between the goal posts.
Between periods they had to appeal to Jim and Bob for the score. At one point in the game, Bob turned hurriedly to Lois.
"Watch out for Frank," he said, excitedly; "He'll be on in a minute."
"How do you know?" Lois demanded. "Oh, Bobby, I wish they wouldn't; he, he—said he'd lose his nerve." Lois had suddenly lost hers.
"You watch that man," Bob pointed, "they'll take him out, see if they don't; he's all in. Frank will play next period."
He was right. When the whistle blew, Frank, after a few hurried words with the coach, tore off his sweater and ran out to the field.
Lois' eyes were glued to him whenever he was in sight, and during one tackle when he was completely lost under the mass of swaying arms and legs, she forgot her surroundings and the fact, most important in Bob's and Jim's eyes, that she was on the Harvard side—by shouting lustily.