Sid had reference to the enemy’s orange sweaters and orange-and-black-ringed stockings.
“Princeton colors,” said Beech. “Doubtless showing a predilection for that university on the part of our noble opponent.”
“How do you get that way?” inquired Sid slangily. “Brown and Young’s fellows don’t go to Princeton.”
“Don’t they?” asked Toby innocently. “Where do they go?”
“Into professional baseball,” answered Sid in triumph.
Beech grinned approval of the bon mot, but said that he didn’t believe there was room in professional baseball for them all. Sid didn’t argue the matter, for Yardley trotted around the corner of the stand just then and the cheer leaders were bellowing for “A regular Yardley cheer, fellows, for the Team!”
After that, with four elevens warming up on the gridiron, there was too much to watch for conversation to flourish. Instead, the talk ran something like this: “Noyes is driving the scrubs.”—“Simpson’s back at center, Cap.”—“Gee, that was some punt! Wonder if they can do that in the game!”—“Oh, you Ted Halliday!”—“Look at the size of that guy, will you? Must be their center.”—“Right guard. He’d make two of Casement!”—“Those chaps have got a heap of pep, haven’t they?”—“How’re you betting, Cap?”—“Watch that yellow-leg kicking goals down there, fellows! He hasn’t missed one yet!”—“Hello, Andy! Who’s going to win?”—“Who’s the little chap in the gray sweater?”—“Cornish, of Trinity. He’s umpiring. He’s good, too.”—“Those fellows can cheer, can’t they? Rotten name for a school, though; Brown and Young’s. Sounds like they were advertising a department store!”—“Must be most time to start. Three minutes of? There goes Fanning now. Is that the referee with him?”—“Good-looking guy, that Brown and Young’s captain.”—“Fan lost the toss! Sure he did! What? Oh, that’s different! Still, I don’t see——”—“Every one up! Bust yourself, Toby! Rah! Rah! Rah!——”
Then, when the rival cheers had floated off across the river and the gold-and-russet marshes beyond, the stands became momentarily silent and the referee’s voice sounded clearly: “All ready, Brown and Young?—Ready, Yardley?” Then the whistle piped and a tall yellow-sleeved tackle swung a striped leg and sent the new ball hurtling down the field.
It was a long, high kick, and well-placed, and when Snowden had gathered it into his arms and doubled himself over it the enemy was almost on him. A scant eight yards he made, by dint of much twisting and feinting, and then he was pulled down. Yardley made one stab at the opponent’s left and gained two. Then the ball went back to Snowden and was hurled well up the field to the left. Roover was quite alone when it reached him, and he trailed off a dozen yards before he was forced outside. The play had caught the enemy napping, and it had suddenly moved the game from Yardley to Brown and Young’s territory, for when the ball was paced in and grounded it lay just short of the enemy’s forty yards. The Blue’s cohorts cheered and shouted and waved, while, from across the field, came a snappy, undismayed cheer from the Orange-and-Black.
Another slight gain outside left tackle, and again the pigskin shot back to Snowden. This time the big full-back started off toward his right as if he meant to turn the end, but, challenged, he threw a lateral to Arnold Deering, and Arnold, behind good interference, raced to the adversary’s twenty-eight before he was set on savagely and tumbled head over heels. Fortunately he held tight to the ball. The Yardley stand was in an uproar of triumph and delight. Dismay showed in the ranks of the enemy. Toby saw the Brown and Young’s quarter, a spindly, nervous-mannered youth, look back apprehensively at the goal-posts as he retreated up the field yelling strident encouragement to his fellows. Toby felt a certain sympathy with that quarter-back, enemy or no enemy. Toby had experienced similar apprehension.