Soon what a struggle there would be to cross those same white lines—especially the last, whereon were the goal posts, and to gain which every last ounce of strength, every atom of breath, every nerve and sinew that could be urged to lend speed to the runner would be called upon to do the utmost that the ball might be shoved over for a touchdown.
Now, however, the gridiron of Randall College lay peaceful and quiet under the October sun. The grass seemed to shiver in the breeze, as if in anticipation of the struggles it would soon have to bear.
The silent grandstands were but waiting the cheering, yelling, singing, sport-maddened and enthusiastic throngs that would shortly occupy them, to cause them to sway as in a gale with the stress of their applause, to echo to the thunder of thousands of stamping feet.
But now the gridiron was deserted. It was like a battle-field whereon had taken place many a conflict, but which, like the arena of old, had been swept and garnished with sand, effacing the marks of strife, that those who came might not see them. It was all ready for the next battle of brawn, practice for which would soon take place.
Out from the gymnasium came rushing a crowd of lads—in canvas trousers and jackets, and in sweaters, the shoulders of which bulged with great leather patches. Some of the warriors had on leather helmets, and others swung rubber nose-guards from their arms by dangling strings.
“Line up! Line up!” came the cry.
“Come on for some punts!”
“Hey, Phil, send out some drop kicks!”
“Pass the ball!”
“Fall on it! Fall on it!”