There is a peculiar thrill at the sound of one's own name shouted by a hundred voices on the end of a cheer. Hill felt it. He liked the feeling. "Now that means me," he said to himself, and he recalled what Drake had said to the middle weight: "Now remember, your whole class is watching you." It was in that moment that Hill caught class spirit.
The heavy weight spree was usually the shortest and most exciting contest of the evening. Everyone eagerly pressed forward on the wet grass.
The sophomores were barking and guying and quacking exultingly. The freshmen were cheering hard.
"Get ready, boys," said Jim, the athletic trainer, acting as referee. He held out the stick.
The sophomore ran out briskly. Hill spat on his hands and took his time about it. They grasped the cane. "Down in front, please!" a voice pleaded. The cheering had ceased as suddenly as you turn off the gas.
Hill was cool. He looked about at the theatre of faces on all sides. Just over the sophomore's shoulder, down on the ground with moonlight on his face, he spied an important-looking senior, with glasses, who on the campus had always seemed oblivious to the existence of freshmen. He was rocking back and forth and chewing a cold cigar to bits.
"Are you ready, Hill?"
The freshman spread his legs apart and said, "Yep."
"Ready, Parker?"
"Yes."