“Yes,” replied his chum. “She and Madge are over in the A section,” and he motioned with his arm to a certain portion of the grandstand. Tom looked, hoping he might distinguish two girls out of a crowd of several hundred. Of course, he could not, and his attention was suddenly called away from this by the sharp voice of the coach.
“Catch some punts, Parsons!” called Mr. Lighton. “After that we’ll line up for practice.”
The Randall eleven was lining up when the Boxer Hall team fairly burst from their dressing-rooms under the east grandstand. What a roar went up as they appeared on the white-marked field! The burst of yells seemed fully to equal the jumble of noise that had been made by the Randallites. For all of Boxer Hall was on hand to cheer mightily for their eleven, and the college was a slight favorite over Randall, who, in years past, had not been known to do anything remarkable on the gridiron.
Encased in their clumsy garments, the Boxer players looked like young giants, and when they lined up and ran through several formations they did it with the precision of clock-work.
“They’ve improved a heap,” was the somewhat dubious remark of Holly Cross.
“So have we!” exclaimed the coach heartily. “We beat them once, and we can do it again. Get that idea into your mind and don’t let go of it.”
“I guess we’ll be all right if Clinton doesn’t have to get out of the game,” spoke the captain.
“Why? Do you think he’ll be hurt?”
“Well, maybe. Boxer Hall sometimes plays a dirty game, and we’ll have to be on the watch. I wish you’d warn the umpire to look out for holding in the line and slugging. They may do it. They’d go to almost any length to win this game. They don’t want to lose the championship.”