The pater stared, at first incredulously, but sure enough that marvellous kicker was his own son Teddie, though disguised by the grime, the pads, and the tangled hair.
It must have been the excitement around him which made the pater stand up and watch with all his eyes every sky-scraping punt that the dirty-faced boy continued to make, and by a mere accident all at once he found himself saying "AA!" as loudly as any one before he had been on his feet a minute.
His companion was wild with excitement. "See that big chap?" he exclaimed, pointing out a young giant whose face looked like some monstrous mask, with its huge rubber nose-guard. "That's Bright, the centre rush. Ain't he a corker?"
"Looks too fat," said the pater, critically.
"Too fat, eh?" replied the other, excitedly. "Well, you just watch him play, and see if he's too fat. That little Larned's the one that's too fat. He punts all right, but a full-back ought not to be so round."
"Not at all! Not at all!" hotly responded the pater, who, though he did not know a full-back from a goal-post, was not going to sit by and hear his only son maligned. "A pull-back should always be thickset! They—er—pull better when they're like that. And—that's my son sir!"
The Westerner choked until he was nearly black in the face. "Well, shake, old man, and we'll call it square," he said, finally, when he had recovered breath enough to speak. "Bright happens to be my son, and in spite of their fat I think our two boys won't disgrace us this day—eh?"
And again it must have been the excitement of the game, for the dignified and somewhat exclusive Mr. Larned found himself shaking hands with a total stranger as if he had been a life-long friend. All his bad temper had disappeared. He was aglow with excitement; the most delightful little thrills ran up and down his back, while an irresistible impulse to shout had taken possession of him.
"This is your first game, isn't it?" Mr. Bright questioned. But just then came another punt, and the pater found it much easier to stand up and yell "AA!" than to answer any such searching questions. Then all further conversation was made impossible by a torrent of cheers from the Princeton tiers, and eleven other men, with the same grimy, weather-beaten costumes, and the same businesslike air of deadly earnestness, spread across the field and went through similar preliminaries. Only their stockings were of a barber-pole pattern, with alternate rings of orange and black instead of a uniform blue, while a large orange "P" blazed on every breast in place of the Y.
And now there was no controlling the audience. Orange and black banners were confronted by yards of Yale blue. Yellow chrysanthemums glared at bunches of violets and bachelor's-buttons, while the wearers—men, women, and children—sent out volleys of cheers that made the grand stand shake. The pater and his newly found friend were on their feet with the rest. Near by was a crowd of Yale "rooters," as Mr. Bright graphically termed them, shouting a rhythmic cheer containing too many x's and other bewildering Greek consonants for the pater, while he invariably added an extra "Rah!" to the regulation cheer. But to his satisfaction he found that not even the deep-voiced Bright could shout "AA!" with more earnest emphasis and volume, and he fell back on that as his strong point.