"GLORY, GLORY HALLELUJAH!"
And then, as if with a sudden thought of overwhelming reverence, the voices died into a soft refrain:
"His soul is marching on!"
The eighty thousand spectators poured from the stands with a solemnity which bespoke their attendance at a memorial service. They had just looked upon and been party to a miracle. The last second field goal from the forty yard line had given Elliott a 9 to 7 victory over the great Delmar eleven.
At the corner of the field a girl cried happily, her head unashamedly against Mooney's shoulder.
"Whatever made you think of that?" Mooney asked her, tenderly.
"I—I don't really know," she answered, looking up at him with just a trace of embarrassment, "but somehow ... you'll think I'm foolish for saying this ... I had the feeling it was John Brown!"
****