The door of the sophomore room opened again and the “real team” ran out. Then the gallery shook indeed! Even the freshmen cheered when the mascot appeared hand in hand with the captain. He was a dashing little Indian brave in full panoply of war-paint, beads, and feathers, with fringed leggins and a real Navajo blanket. When he had finished his grand entry, which consisted of a war-dance, accompanied by ear-splitting war-whoops, he came to himself suddenly to find a thousand people staring at him, and he was somewhat appalled. He could not blush, for Mary Brooks had stained his face and neck a beautiful brick-red, and he lacked the courage to run away. So he waited, forlorn and uncomfortable, while the freshman team rushed in, circling gaily about a diminutive knight in shining silver armor, with a green plume. He marched proudly, but with some difficulty, for his helmet was down and his sword, which was much too long for him, had an unbecoming tendency to trip him up. When his hesitating steps had brought him to the middle of the gymnasium, the knight, apparently perceiving the Indian for the first time, dropped his encumbering sword and rushed at his rival with sudden vehemence and blood-curdling cries. The little Indian stared for a moment in blank amazement, then slipping off his blanket turned tail and ran, reaching the door long before his sophomore supporters could stop him. The knight meanwhile, left in full possession of the field, waited for a moment until the laughter and applause had died away into curiosity. Then, deliberately reaching up one gauntleted hand, he pulled off his helmet, and disclosed the saucy, freckled face of the popular son of a favorite professor.
He grinned cheerfully at the stage and the gallery, gallantly faced the junior-freshman side, and waving his green plume aloft yelled, “Hip, hip, hurrah for the freshmen!” at the top of a pair of very strong lungs. Then he raced off to find the seat which had been the price of his performance between two of his devoted admirers on the sub team, while the gallery, regardless of meaningless prohibitions and forgetful of class distinctions, cheered him to the echo.
All of a sudden a businesslike air began to pervade the floor of the gymnasium. Somebody picked up the knight’s sword and the Indian’s blanket, and Miss Andrews took her position under the gallery. The ushers crowded onto the steps of the stage, and the members of the teams, who had gathered around their captains for a last hurried conference, began to find their places.
“Oh, I almost wished they’d sing for a while more,” sighed Betty.
“Do you?” answered Helen absently. She was leaning out over the iron bar of the railing with her eyes glued to the smallest freshman centre. “Why?”
“Oh, it makes me feel so thrilled and the songs are so clever and amusing, and the mascots so funny.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Helen. “The things here are all like that, but I want to see them play.”
“You mean you want to see her play,” corrected Betty merrily. “I don’t believe you care for a single other thing but T. Reed. Where is she?”
Helen pointed her out proudly.
“Oh, what an awfully funny, thin little braid! Isn’t she comical in her gym suit, anyway? You wouldn’t think she could play at all, would you, she’s so small.”