“Is she—is she intellectual?”
“Terribly; a regular blue-stocking. But I’ll tell her to be easy on you. Besides, the mater’ll see fair play. You make out your application to-morrow and we’ll get them in. Your shot.”
Phillip, after long and careful aim, missed a simple carrom, and Kingsford, lounging negligently about the table, made a run of fourteen, while his adversary looked on enviously from the seat.
One chill and cloudy afternoon Phillip and Chester marched in a procession composed of some six hundred patriotic and enthusiastic fellows from the Union out to Soldiers’ Field, taking in the Yard en route and gathering recruits from halls and dormitories. At the head strode a band. Then came a diligent junior with a big crimson megaphone, and behind him the classes marshaled according to seniority, and each preceded by a flapping banner bearing the class numerals. Phillip and his friends were at the tag end, but it was all very inspiriting and impressive, and he was glad he belonged. And it was rather good fun, too, for it was the proper thing to walk on the heels of the fellows in front whenever possible and apologize profusely when they showed displeasure. The cheering and singing were incessant, and they crossed the square, where the sidewalks were lined with town folk and shopkeepers, the feminine element largely predominating, chanting the jovial strains of “Up the Street” with might and main:
“Look where the Crimson banners fly!
Hark to the sound of tramping feet!
There is a host approaching nigh—
Harvard is marching up the street!
Onward to victory again!
Marching with drum-beat and with song—
Hear the refrain!
As it thunders along—as it thunders along!
Behold! they come in view!
Who wear the Crimson hue—
Whose arms are strong, whose hearts are true!
Ever to Harvard! ever to Harvard!”
From the band far up at the head of the line came the shrilling of the piccolos for a little space and with it the steady tramp, tramp of many feet. And then the drums crashed again and the voices took up the song once more, grandly, confidently:
“And Harvard’s glory shall be our aim,
And through the ages the sound shall roll,
When all together we cheer her name—
When we cheer her with heart and soul!”
Out Boylston Street they went, cheering by classes, across the little drawbridge which creaked complainingly beneath them, into the field by the big gate and past the monument. Outside the gridiron they came to a halt. The entrances were draped with canvas and secret practice was not yet over. So the indefatigable junior with the megaphone mounted a pile of lumber and called for more cheers; cheers for the players separately and collectively, for the coaches one by one and for the trainer, and finally for the college. And overhead the workmen leaned down from the big, many-trussed stand they were erecting and grinned sympathy and approval.
At last the canvas was drawn aside and the band and the followers marched into the amphitheatre. On the gridiron players and coaches paused for a moment to watch as the procession passed them and made its way around the field to the farther stand, and it is scarcely conceivable, despite the disinterested expression of their faces, that they were unmoved by the hearty cheers that arose to the bleak, wind-swept sky.