VI
The day of the St. Matthew’s game dawned fair and crisp. There was a little breeze blowing out of the northwest, but it was not of sufficient strength to have any influence on the play, unless, as seemed improbable, it increased by afternoon. The team piled into a coach and were driven over to the neighboring village of Turner, where they were to have their luncheon at the little hotel, returning afterward just in time to warm up before the contest. St. Matthew’s began to put in an appearance about eleven, with the arrival of the first eastbound express. The village, bedecked with brown flags and bunting, began to show specks of blue. The game was to start at two o’clock, and by one the first of the invaders appeared in the persons of two small and enthusiastic youths, who carried blue flags, wore blue arm bands and who marched the length of the campus before proceeding to the field, critically viewing the buildings and being greeted with loud and ironic cheers from various windows. After that the stream from the village set in in earnest and the blue flags fluttered into the field by the dozens. But for every blue one there were at least twenty brown, and later, when St. Matthew’s started the cheering, the heroic efforts of her supports were drowned by the deafening response that swept across the field.
Harry and Tracey reached the field early and were lucky enough to find seats at the end of the third row in the stand. There were plenty of empty seats toward the top, but the boys wanted to be as near the play as possible. At twenty minutes to two the St. Matthew’s players, first-string men and substitutes, some thirty in all, trotted through the end gate to the cheers of the blue contingent across the white-streaked turf. Five minutes later the brown-clad warriors appeared, Corson in the lead, and eight earnest, imploring cheer leaders seized their megaphones and summoned such an outburst that the players, doffing their blankets on the side line, viewed the sloping, brown-flecked bank in surprise. Then came a cheer for St. Matthew’s, and then St. Matthew’s answered it with one for Barnstead. The local band struck up a march, flags fluttered and waved, late comers crowded the aisles and the rival teams went through their warming-up practice. Brown ovals arched against a cloudless blue November sky and the thud of leather against leather punctuated the shrill cries of the quarterbacks as they trotted their squads over the field.
In the midst of it all Harry glanced up to see a group of three fellows pushing their way up the aisle past his seat. They were laughing merrily and paying not too much attention to the comfort of those in front of them, being evidently determined to get seats at any cost of politeness. One of the boys, daring the conventions, wore only a brown woolen sweater over his vest, and as on such an occasion, when parents and friends attended who could, Barnstead was very particular to look her best, Harry looked again and a trifle disapprovingly at the big youth. The latter turned just then to make a laughing remark to one of his companions and Harry saw his face. He was Perry Vose. That in a measure explained the costume, for Perry was known to take delight in defying school conventions. As Harry’s gaze left Perry’s countenance there was a momentary rift in the ascending file, and the younger boy’s eyes fell on a tiny square of white just above the bottom of the brown sweater at the back. Instantly he was on his feet, Tracey viewing him curiously. One by one the throng in the aisle found accommodations at left or right, but the three boys kept on, doubtless seeking places together. Harry watched, his heart thumping against his ribs, and ascended two or three steps in order to see better. Tracey was anxiously demanding what was up, but Harry paid no heed to him. Then suddenly he had a clear, unobstructed view of Perry Vose climbing the stand above him. There was the brown sweater with the white tag just as he had glimpsed it the other night at the turn of the dormitory stairs. And there was the rather heavy, thick-set body he had seen. The last doubt fled and Harry started impetuously after Perry. But a few tiers beyond he stopped and reconsidered. Then, descending again to his place, he spoke softly to Tracey.
“You know Perry Vose, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, pretty well. Why?” Tracey viewed his chum’s excited face uneasily.
“I want you to go up there—I’ll show you where he is—and tell him someone wants to speak to him at the gate. Don’t say who it is. Tell him you don’t know. Tell him any old thing, only get him down to the gate, and do it quick!”
“Well, but what——”
“Don’t ask questions, Tracey; just do what I say, like a good pal, won’t you?”