There is a tradition at Hillton, almost as firmly inwrought as that which credits Professor Durkee with wearing a wig, to the effect that Thanksgiving Day is always rainy. To-day proved an exception to the rule. The sun shone quite warmly and scarce a cloud was to be seen. At two o’clock the grand stand was filled, and late arrivals had perforce to find accommodations on the grass along the side-lines. Some fifty lads had accompanied their team from St. Eustace, and the portion of the stand where they sat was blue from top to bottom. But the crimson of Hillton fluttered and waved on either side and dotted the field with little spots of vivid color wherever a Hilltonian youth or ally sat, strolled, or lay.

Yard and village were alike well-nigh deserted; here was the staid professor, the corpulent grocer, the irrepressible small boy, the important-looking senior, the shouting, careless junior, the giggling sister, the smiling mother, the patronizing papa, the crimson-bedecked waitress from the boarding house, the the band! Yes, by all means, the band!

There was no chance of overlooking the band. It stood at the upper end of the field and played and played and played. The band never did things by halves. When it played it played; and, as Outfield West affirmed, “it played till the cows came home!”

There were plenty of familiar faces here to-day; Professor Gibbs’s, old “Peg-Leg” Duffy’s, Professor Durkee’s, the village postmaster’s, “Old Joe” Pike’s, and many, many others. On the ground just outside the rope sat West and a throng of boys from Hampton House. There were Cooke and Cartwright and Somers and Digbee and yes, Wesley Blair, looking very glum and unhappy. He had donned his football clothes, perhaps from force of habit, and sat there taking little part in the conversation, but studying attentively the blue-clad youths who were warming-up on the gridiron. A very stalwart lot of youngsters, those same youths looked to be, and handled the ball as though to the manner born, and passed and fell and kicked short high punts with discouraging ease and vim.

But one acquaintance at least was missing. Not Bartlett Cloud, for he sat with his sister and mother on the seats; not Clausen, for he sat among the substitutes; not Sproule, since he was present but a moment since. But Joel March was missing. In his room at Masters Hall Joel sat by the table with a Greek history open before him. I fear he was doing but little studying, for now and then he arose from his chair, walked impatiently to the window, from which he could see in the distance the thronged field, bright with life and color, turned impatiently away, sighed, and so returned again to his book. But surely we can not tarry there with Joel when Hillton and St. Eustace are about to meet in gallant if bloodless combat on the campus. Let us leave him to sigh and sulk, and return to the gridiron.

A murmur that rapidly grows to a shout arises from the grand stand, and suddenly every eye is turned up the river path toward the school. They are coming! A little band of canvas-armored knights are trotting toward the campus. The shouting grows in volume, and the band changes its tune to “Hilltonians.” Nearer and nearer they come, and then are swinging on to the field, leaping the rope, and throwing aside sweaters and coats. Big Greer is in the lead, good-natured and smiling. Then comes Whipple, then Warren, and the others are in a bunch Post, Christie, Fenton, Littlefield, Barnard, Turner, Cote, Wills. The St. Eustace contingent gives them a royal welcome, and West and Cooke and Somers and others take their places in front of the seats and lead the cheering.

“Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, Hillton!” The mighty chorus sweeps across the campus and causes more than one player’s heart to swell within him.

“S-E-A, S-E-A, S-E-A, Saint Eustace!” What the cheer lacks in volume is atoned for by good will, and a clapping of hands from the hostile seats attests admiration. Hillton is warming for the fray. Greer and Whipple are practicing snapping-back, the latter passing the ball to Warren, who seizes it and runs a few steps to a new position, where the play is repeated. The guards and tackles are throwing themselves on to the ground and clutching rolling footballs in a way that draws a shudder of alarm from the feminine observer. Stephen Remsen is talking with the ends very earnestly under the goal posts, and Post and Wills are aiming balls at the goal with, it must be acknowledged, small success.

Then a whistle blows, the two teams congregate in the center of the field, the opposing captains flip a coin, the referee, a Yates College man, utters a few words of warning, and the teams separate, St. Eustace taking the ball and the home team choosing the northern goal. Then the cheering lessens. St. Eustace spreads out; Cantrell, their center, places the ball; the referee’s whistle sounds, the pigskin soars aloft, and the game is on.

In charity toward Hillton let us pass over the first half as soon as may be. Suffice to tell that the wearers of the crimson fought their best; that Whipple ran the team as well as even Remsen could desire; that Post made a startling run of forty yards, had only the St. Eustace full-back between him and the goal and then ran plump into that full-back’s arms; that Greer and Barnard and Littlefield stood like a stone wall and went down like one; that Wills kicked, and Post kicked, and Warren kicked, and none of them accomplished aught save to wring groans from the souls of all who looked on. In short, it was St. Eustace’s half from kick-off to call of time, and all because Hillton had never a youth behind the line to kick out of danger or gain them a yard. For St. Eustace was heavier in the line than Hillton and heavier back of it, and with the ball once in her possession St. Eustace had only to hammer away at center, guard, or tackle with “guards back” or “tandem,” to score eventually. And that is what she did. And yet four times did Hillton hold St. Eustace literally on her goal-line and take the ball. And each time by hook or crook, by a short, weak punt or a clever, dashing run around end, did Hillton win back a portion of her lost territory, only to lose it again at the second or third attempt to advance the ball.

The halves were twenty-five minutes long, and in that first twenty-five minutes St. Eustace scored but once, though near it thrice that many times. Allen, St. Eustace’s right half-back, had plunged over the line for a touch-down at the end of fifteen minutes of play and Terrill had missed an easy goal. Then the grand stand was silent save for one small patch, whereon blue flags went crazy and swirled and leaped and danced up and down as though possessed of life. And over the field sped, sharp and triumphant, the St. Eustace cheer. And the score stood: St. Eustace 5, Hillton O.

The first half ended with the leather but ten yards from the north goal, and a great murmuring sigh of relief went up from the seats and from along the side-lines when the whistle sounded. Then the Hillton players, pale, dirty, half defeated, trotted lamely off the field and around the corner of the stand to the little weather-beaten shed which served for dressing room. And the blue-clad team trotted joyfully down to their stage, and there, behind the canvas protections were rubbed down and plastered up, and slapped on the back by their delighted coach and trainer.

In the Hillton quarters life was less cheerful during the ten minutes of intermission. After the fellows had rubbed and redressed, Remsen talked for a minute or two. There was no scolding, and no signs of either disappointment or discouragement. But he cautioned the team against carelessness, predicted a tied score at the end of fifteen minutes, and called for three-times-three for Hillton, which was given with reviving enthusiasm. A moment later the team trotted back to the field.

“Touch her down,
Touch her down,
Touch her down again!
H-I-double-L-T-O-N!”

chanted the wearers of the crimson; and “St. Eustace! St. Eustace! St. Eustace!” shouted the visitors as they waved their bright blue banners in air. The whistle piped merrily, the ball took its flight, and it was now or never for old Hillton!

Stephen Remsen joined the string of substitutes and found a seat on the big gray blanket which held Browne and Clausen. From there he followed the progress of the game.

Outwardly he was as happy and contented, as cool and disinterested, as one of the goal posts. Inwardly he was railing against the fate that had deprived Hillton of both the players who, had they been in the team, could have saved the crimson from defeat. Wesley Blair joined him, and with scarce a word they watched St. Eustace revert to her previous tactics, and tear great gaping holes in the Hillton line, holes often large enough to admit of a coach and four, and more than large enough to allow Allen or Jansen to go tearing, galloping through, with the ball safe clutched, for three, five? or even a dozen yards!

No line can long stand such treatment, and, while the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound Greer still held out, Barnard, the big right-guard, was already showing signs of distress. St. Eustace’s next play was a small wedge on tackle, and although Barnard threw himself with all his remaining strength into the breach he was tossed aside like a bag of feathers and through went the right and left half-backs, followed by full with the ball, and pushed onward by left-end and quarter. When down was called the ball was eight yards nearer Hillton’s goal, and Barnard lay still on the ground.

Whipple held up his hand. Thistelweight a youth of some one hundred and forty pounds struggled agitatedly with his sweater and bounded into the field, and Barnard, white and weak, was helped limping off. For awhile St. Eustace fought shy of right-guard, and then again the weight of all the backs was suddenly massed at that point, and, though a yard resulted, the crimson wearers found cause for joy, and a ringing cheer swept over the field. But Littlefield at left-guard was also weakening, and the tackle beside him was in scarce better plight. And so, with tandem on tackle, wedge, or guard back, St. Eustace plowed along toward the Hillton goal, and a deep silence held the field save for the squad of blue-decked cheerers on the seats.

Remsen looked at his watch. “Eighteen minutes to play,” he announced quietly. Blair nodded. He made no attempt to disguise his dejection. Clausen heard, and suddenly turned toward the coach. He was pale, and Remsen wondered at his excitement.

“Can’t we tie them, sir?” he asked breathlessly.

“I’m afraid not. And even if we could they’d break loose.” Clausen paid no heed to the sorry joke.

“But they’ll win, sir! Isn’t there anything to do?” Remsen stared. Then he smiled. “Failing an extraordinary piece of luck, my lad, we’re already beaten. Our line can’t hold them; we have no one to kick, even should we get a chance, and ”

“But if Blair was there, sir, or March?”

“It might make a difference. Hello! there they go through tackle-guard hole again. Lord, six yards if an inch!” Blair groaned and rolled over in despair. The whistle sounded, and as the pile of writhing youths dissolved it was seen that Tom Warren was hurt. Out trotted the rubber. The players sank exhausted to the ground and lay stretched upon the sward, puffing and panting. Two minutes went by. Then Whipple called for Clausen.

“Clausen,” cried Remsen turning, “go in and ” But Clausen was not to be seen. “Clausen!” cried a dozen voices. There was no response, and Browne was taken on instead, and Warren, with an ankle that failed him at every step, struggled off the field.

“What’s become of Clausen?” asked Remsen. But no one could answer.

The play went on. With the ball on Hillton’s twenty-yard line a fumble gave it to the home team, and on the first down Browne gathered it in his arms and tried to skirt St. Eustace’s left end, but was thrown with a loss of a yard. A similar play with Wills as the runner was tried around the other end and netted a yard and a half. It was the third down and four and a half yards to gain. Back went the ball to Post and he kicked. But it was a poor performance, that kick, and only drove the pigskin down the side-line to the forty-yard line, where it bounded in touch. But it delayed the evil moment of another score for St. Eustace, and the seats cheered.

“Twelve minutes left,” announced Remsen.

Relentless as fate the St. Eustace forwards surged on toward the opposing goal. Two yards, three yards, one yard, five yards, half a yard, always a gain, never a check, until once more the leather reposed just in front of the Hillton goal and midway between the ten and fifteen-yard line. Then a plunge through the tackle-guard hole, followed by a tandem on guard, and another five yards was passed. The cheering from the wearers of the blue was now frantic and continuous. There was two years of defeat to make up for, and victory was hovering over the azure banner!

“Eight minutes to play,” said Remsen. “If we can only keep them from scoring again!” Suddenly there was a murmur from the seats, then a cry of surprise from Remsen’s side, then a shout of exultation that gathered and grew as it traveled along the line. And around the corner of the stand came a youth who strove to lace his torn and tattered canvas jacket as he ran. Remsen leaped to his feet, dropping his pipe unnoticed, and hastened toward him. They met and for a moment conversed in whispers.

“It’s Joel March!” cried Blair. “He’s going to play!” exclaimed a dozen voices. “But he can’t,” cried a dozen others. “He’s on probation.” “He is! He is! He’s going on! He’s going to play!”

And so he was. Whipple had already seen him, and had sunk to the ground nursing an ankle which had suddenly gone lame. “Time!” he cried, and obedient to his demand the referee’s whistle piped. “Give your place to Post, Wills!” he commanded, and then, limping to Joel, he led that youth apart.

“Can you play?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes.”

“Then get in there at full-back, and, O March, kick us out of this bloody place! I’ll give you the ball on the next down. Kick it for all you’re worth.” He gave Joel a shove. “All right, Mr. Referee!” The whistle sounded.

Forward charged St. Eustace. But, gathering encouragement from the knowledge that back of them stood a full who would put them out of danger if the opportunity were given him, Hillton stood fast.

“Second down, five yards to gain!” cried the umpire.

Again the wearers of bedraggled blue stockings surged and broke against the line. And again there was no gain. Back of Hillton, less than eight yards away, lay the goal-line. Desperation lends strength. Huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, the backs bracing from behind, the crimson-clad youths awaited the next charge. It was “the thin red line” again. Then back went the ball, there was a moment of grinding canvas, of muttered words and smothered gasps, of swaying, clutching, falling, and “Down!” was heard.

“Hillton’s ball; first down,” announced the umpire.

What a cheer went up from the grand stand! What joy was in Remsen’s heart as the St. Eustace full-back went trotting up the field and Greer stooped over the ball! Then came a pause, a silence. Every one knew what to look for. Squarely between the posts and directly under the cross-bar stood Joel March, his left foot on the goal-line. Back came the ball, straight and low into Joel’s outstretched hands. The line blocked long and hard. One step forward, an easy, long swing of his right leg, and Joel sent the ball sailing a yard over the upstretched hands of the opposing line and far and high down the field.

There it was gathered into the arms of the St. Eustace full-back, but ere that player had put his foot twice to ground he was thrown, and the teams lined up on St. Eustace’s forty-five-yard line. Then it was that the god of battle befriended Hillton; for on the next play St. Eustace made her first disastrous fumble, and Christie, Hillton’s right end, darted through, seized the rolling spheroid, and started down the field. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty yards he sped, the St. Eustace backs trailing after him.

“A touch-down!” cried Remsen. “No, the half’s gaining! He’s got him! No, missed him, by Jove! A-ah!”

The run was over, and Christie lay panting on the ground, with the triumphant St. Eustace half-back sitting serenely on his head; for, although the latter had missed his tackle, Christie had slipped in avoiding him. But cheers for Christie and Hillton filled the afternoon air, and the two elevens lined up near St. Eustace’s twenty-five-yard line, yet well over toward the side of the field.

“If it was only in the middle of the field,” groaned Blair, “a place-kick would tie the score. How much time is there, Mr. Remsen?”

“About two and a half minutes,” answered Remsen. “But I’ve an idea that, middle or no middle, Whipple’s going to signal a kick.”

“It can’t be done,” answered Blair with conviction, “drop or placement! March is only fair at goals, and at that angle ”

“What’s the matter with the man?” cried Remsen; “what’s he up to?” For the Hillton backs were clustered well up behind the line as though for a wedge attack. And as Remsen wondered, the ball was put in play, the line blocked sharply, and Christie left his place at right end, and skirting behind the backs received the ball by a double pass via right half-back and ran for the middle of the field, the backs helping the end and tackle to hold the St. Eustace right line. Christie gained the center of the gridiron and advanced a yard toward the opponent’s goal ere the St. Eustace right half-back reached him. Then there was a quick line-up, and Joel took up his position for a kick.

“Well done, Whipple!” cried Remsen and Blair in a breath.

“But the time!” muttered Remsen, “does he know ”

“One minute to play!” came the ominous announcement.

Then, while a snap of the fingers could have been heard the length of the field, Whipple glanced deliberately around at the backs, slapped the broad back of the center sharply, seized the snapped ball, and made a swift, straight pass to Joel. Then through the Hillton line went the St. Eustace players, breaking down with vigor born of desperation the blocking of their opponents. With a leap into the air the St. Eustace left-guard bore down straight upon Joel; there was a concussion, and the latter went violently to earth, but not before his toe had met the rebounding ball; and the latter, describing a high arc, sailed safely, cleanly over the bar and between the posts! And then, almost before the ball had touched the ground, the whistle blew shrilly, and apparent defeat had been turned into what was as good as victory to the triumphant wearers of the Hillton crimson!

Hillton and St. Eustace had played a tie.

And over the ropes, rushing, leaping, shouting, broke the tide of humanity, crimson flags swirled over a sea of heads, and pandemonium ruled the campus!

And on the ground where he had fallen lay Joel March.