"A sweater?"
"No, sir."
"Well, we only want a little light practice. Get your things to-night in the village. On the jump now!"
Moore hastily trooped down with the others and followed across the long green stretches in the tingly September air, a little apprehensive of what the term "light practice" might mean. The veterans in scarred suits and rent jerseys marched gloriously in front, gambolling and romping with the ball, shouting out salutations to parties who swarmed over the campus from other houses on the way to the playgrounds. The newcomers in hastily patched-up costumes, incongruous and absurd, clustered together talking in broken, forced monosyllables. Suddenly the advance halted and a shout went up.
"Here come the Dickinsons. Gee, look at the material they've got!"
Piggy, uncomprehending, beheld a group of thirty-odd boys swinging toward them, shouting and laughing as they came. From the advancing crowd came a challenging yell.
"We're going to wipe the earth up with you, Kennedy."
"Good-bye, Kennedy. Good-bye!"
From the Kennedys the challenge was flung back: