There was something in Tim Mooney's appeal that was heart-rending. Tears glistened in the former Elliott fullback's eyes and found their reflection in the eyes of John Brown's assistant coach.
"Mooney," spoke Red Murdock, with difficulty, "I know just how you feel. I played for J. B. once and I'd have given as much for him in life as you're now willing to give to him in death. I can't refuse you, boy. You play. Report for practice tomorrow night!"
Outside the brown-stoned house and across the street from the place in which Red Murdock had his room, a girl paced up and down, taking care to keep within the gathering shadows. Every once in a while she would stop, just opposite the house, and gaze anxiously at the entrance. The time of her waiting seemed a young eternity to her though in all it could not have been more than ten minutes. And then the figure she had been looking for emerged. He glanced about, saw her, and both started toward each other.
"What did he say?" she cried, breathlessly.
The former Elliott fullback did not attempt a verbal reply. He simply reached out and gripped the hands of the girl, as they met, and nodded his head.
"Pm so glad," she murmured, tears splashing down upon his rough knuckles. "I really think J. B. misjudged me ... and I haven't any way of making up to him ... except through you.... It's our chance, Tim ... to make good!"
He smiled and patted her arm and the two of them went off, hand in hand, through the dusk.
No one saw the sun rise the morning of the momentous day as Saturday dawned behind a bank of dark, somber-looking clouds. Highways early became choked with lines of automobiles and railway schedules slowed under the running of football specials. The vicinity about Elliott University soon resembled a vast ant hill, swarming with sport-crazed humans. By noon the little college town was transformed into a huge outdoor garage with every available space, even front lawns, taken up by autos, many of which bore licenses from distant states. The throng milled up and down the streets, impelled by a restless curiosity. Delmar students, on hand six thousand strong, felt almost lost without the tuneful services of their famous band. An uncanny absence of boisterous sound prevailed as though everyone was impressed with the peculiar nature of the occasion. And because of this strained sort of reverent silence the atmosphere was gradually being made so tense as to be almost unbearable.
Members of the Elliott team, confined to their rooms until noon by order of Red Murdock, reflected—to a much more trying degree—the feelings of the multitude. Outside they could hear the tramp and shuffle of feet and occasionally an outcry, but their ears recorded no blare of music or outburst of jostling gaiety. And, as minute crawled after minute, their irritation grew so that they took to pacing up and down—up and down—figuratively frothing at the mouths to be out and clawing into Delmar ... anything to get the torture of waiting over!
By fifteen minutes before game time every possible nook and cranny of Elliott field was jammed with heart-palpitating humanity. The great stadium was packed, aisles and all, with the greatest crowd its historic confines had ever held. And thousands more stormed the gates outside, beseeching entrance.