Then suddenly some one cried distinctly:
“Look at Stone! ’Rah for old Stoney!”
They shed their sweaters. A ball was tossed out, and immediately they began passing, punting and falling upon it. And now Stone, painfully self-conscious, fumbled. When, a moment or two later, the pigskin came bounding his way over the ground, he flung himself at it only to have it squirm out of his grasp and spin off to one side. He rose, his face crimson, realizing that something was the matter.
A hand touched him lightly on the shoulder, and Eliot’s voice sounded in his ear.
“All right, Stone, old man; don’t mind the crowd. Forget it.”
That was the matter; he knew it in a twinkling. Getting a grip on himself, he became steady and sure.
Presently he found himself, with others, watching the two captains who had stepped aside to consult with the referee. For a moment his eyes roved over the scene. On one side of the field the seats were already well filled. A mass of blue banners indicated where the scholars of Clearport High were grouped. At the south the crowd was thinner and the crimson banners of Oakdale were not so plentiful. East and west the goal posts rose against the sky. Between those posts the regular white chalk marks made a huge checkerboard.
Oh, it was a fine thing to be living! And it was a marvel indeed to be there, a member of one of those two teams of healthy, brown-faced lads who would soon be struggling for supremacy on that field.
His eyes came back to the two captains and the referee. He saw the latter toss into the air something that spun and glittered brightly. He saw all three stoop to observe how the coin had fallen. Then Eliot slapped Merwin on the shoulder, said something, turned and came trotting toward his comrades.
“Come on, fellows,” called Roger; “I won the toss. We’ll take the western goal and have both wind and sun at our backs.”