Under a leaden sky, buffeted by an icy wind from the east, some
thirty-four thousand persons huddled upon the towering stands that
completely inclosed the field, shivering under coats and rugs and
furs, stamping their chilled feet, and all the while, in the manner of
Anglo-Americans, laughing at physical discomfort so long as athletic
prowess was the reward.
The bare, unlovely expanses of yellow pine boards were no longer
visible. From the gridiron the sloping banks of humanity might, for all
evidence the eye could obtain, have hidden tiers of marble seats like
some huge amphitheatre of old. The effect was of substantiality and
permanence.
The sky was colourless, the earth dun. Nature was in a mood of
somberness and showed no favouritism; neither crimson nor blue was
included in her colour scheme. But within the crowded inclosure the
scene was brightly tinted. The upward sloping backgrounds were dull and
sad enough, to be sure――gray and brown, and black; but against them
everywhere, from corner to corner, from top to bottom, trembled specks
of crimson and blue like roses and gentians fluttering in the wind.
Nearer at hand the blossoms resolved themselves into flags, ribbons
and bouquets. Even the score-cards added their touches of colour,
while thousands of bright red megaphones and hundreds of toy crimson
balloons bobbed and swayed. The north stand was darkly cerulean from
end to end; the south stand warmly, deeply red; while the end tiers
owned allegiance to Harvard save where, here and there, a Yale banner
flaunted defiantly like a sapphire set amidst rubies.
There was sound as well as colour. Thirty-four thousand voices arose
in talk and laughter, song and cheer. Near the centre of the south
side was a table. On the table stood the junior with the crimson
megaphone. In front of him was the band, increased in numbers since its
last appearance, and beyond the band, stretching upward and away to
the sky line, was the cheering section. When the megaphone waved the
band played and a thousand voices sang. After the songs came cheers,
stately, thunderous, roared out from thousands of lusty throats.
Across the field, on the north side, every vocal challenge was
accepted. Yale sang and shouted her slogans incessantly. Her numbers
were fewer, but there were strong lungs behind the deep blue banners,
and when a handful of blue-stockinged warriors ran into sight it was
as though New Haven and not Cambridge was the scene of battle. The
throngs at the entrances had thinned out now, and numbed fingers were
drawing watches from pockets hidden under many thicknesses of coats and
mufflers. And then onto the rectangle of faded turf trotted a little
squad of men in nice new black sweaters adorned with crimson H’s, and
pandemonium broke loose. And when, after many minutes, comparative
quiet settled over the scene, a whistle blew shrilly, and Harvard and
Yale were again at battle.
It is safe to say that of that host of onlookers there was only one who
did not see the Yale leftguard send the ball corkscrewing to Harvard’s
fifteen-yard line and into the arms of the Harvard captain. John North,
watching from the side line, saw it; David Meadowcamp, sitting beside
his father and for once wide awake, saw it; Chester and Guy, enthroned
half-way up the cheering section, saw it; Everett Kingsford saw it;
Miss Mildred Wayland, who sat beside him; and the obliging Muir; and
Kingsford’s mother; and his sister Betty. The one who did not see it
was Phillip.
He was looking at Betty.
Phillip had spent the morning in a condition of funk. He wished
heartily that he hadn’t agreed to Kingsford’s request; the prospect of
sitting for two hours between an elderly woman who would tell him of
Everett’s infantile adventures and maladies and a girl who would talk
to him about Thoreau and Emerson and――horror of horrors!――possibly his
soul, was appalling. Thoreau and Emerson didn’t interest him greatly as
yet, and being a very healthy young gentleman, with a good digestion
and scant knowledge of such a thing as a liver, he never considered his
soul at all. The idea of being taken suddenly ill with some strange
and serious ailment occurred to him, but as that would necessitate
his remaining away from the game, since tickets were at a prohibitive
price, he gave it up. To miss the smallest portion of the contest was
not to be thought of for an instant; better far to perish a victim to
friendship.
He was to meet Kingsford and his party in the square at half past
one. Most of the fellows at his table were either having lunch in
town or heroically braving the restaurants in company with friends
or relatives, and Phillip had the table practically to himself. The
question whether to wear a nice new rain-coat or an old ulster had
bothered him all the forenoon, and he had decided in favour of the
ulster. But after lunch a sudden realization of its unloveliness came
to him, and he stole back to his room by way of Mount Auburn Street, so
as not to encounter Kingsford in the square, and donned the rain-coat.
A girl is a girl, he reflected, even if she talks philosophy and
psychology!
He found Kingsford waiting for him, surrounded by three ladies and
a retiring fellow who, he supposed, must be Muir. Kingsford accused
him of tardiness in one breath and introduced him to the rest of the
party in another; and then started them off unceremoniously through
the throng in the direction of Soldiers’ Field. Phillip found himself
with Mrs. Kingsford, and after a first moment of bewilderment realized
that his picture of a rather garrulous elderly and white-haired lady
was all wrong. Everett’s mother looked to be about twenty-five, and
was so beautiful and so gracious that Phillip would have forgiven her
had she launched at once into a catalogue of the diseases of children
and their remedies. But she did nothing of the sort. Instead she
talked charmingly of everyday affairs, whimsically anticipated being
ill for weeks to come as a result of sitting outdoors in such weather,
asked one or two sensible questions regarding football, good-naturedly
criticized the persons and objects they passed in their mad, headlong
career out Boylston Street, and was altogether so captivating that
by the time they had fought their way into the grounds Phillip’s one
desire in life was to sit beside her and listen to her for the rest of
the afternoon.
When they reached their seats, after a long and tedious climb which
Kingsford declared was harder than ascending the Jungfrau, Muir, who
had walked with Betty from the square, was detailed to the farther
seat. Kingsford sent his mother in next, then Phillip, followed by
Betty, Miss Wayland and himself. It was not until then that Phillip
had a fair look at the young lady who was to talk Emerson and Thoreau
to him. And it was then that he experienced his second surprise. Betty
Kingsford was small, rather slight, with a good deal of very rebellious
hair of a light brown shade which Phillip didn’t remember ever having
seen before, and which was continually being blown across her face
and continually drawn away again. Her eyes were deeply brown. Phillip
discovered this just after Harvard had made her first touchdown, and
the discovery, for some inexplicable reason, came to him as a shock
and seemed for weeks afterward to be the most wonderful and momentous
discovery of recent years. Her cheeks were like――well, to use Phillip’s
own simile, a simile which he honestly believed he had invented, they
were like wild pink roses. When she laughed, which was frequently, she
showed a number of small and very even teeth of marvelous whiteness.
When she smiled, which was pretty much all the time, she caused a
dimple to appear on each cheek. After that day the tune of “Up the
Street” was associated in Phillip’s mind with pink cheeks and dimples,
laughing brown eyes, and wind-loosened tresses. Phillip’s chronology of
the game would, if written, run something like this:
2 P. M. First spoke to Miss Kingsford.
2:15 Discovered that her eyes were dark-brown and that her hair was the
colour of beech leaves in autumn.
2:25 The left-hand dimple is a trifle deeper than the right-hand
dimple.
2:30 She has the nicest, rippling sort of a laugh you ever heard.
2:45 Our hands touched under the rug; I don’t think she knew it.
2:55 She likes Virginia and has been in our part of it.
3:05 She dropped her score-card. It went under the seat and she
accepted mine.
3:15 She is going to make Everett give a tea in his room some
afternoon. I am to be there.
3:30 She leaned across me to talk to her mother and her hair blew
against my face. It smelled awfully sweet, like violets or――or
something.
3:40 We all stood up and shouted and waved our arms. When we sat down
again she let me tuck the rug about her. She laughed.
3:50 I am going to call some afternoon. And I am to go in for dinner
some night; her mother asked me.
3:55 When we got up I found her score-card and she said I might keep
it. I kept it. Harvard won. I don’t know the score.
If you were to remonstrate with Phillip about the incompleteness
of this history of what was a great and, from a Harvard viewpoint,
a glorious event, he would probably tell you to read the papers.
And I shall do the same. In them you will find a very succinct and
interesting account of that game, with all sorts of pictures made the
day before and wonderful and confusing diagrams showing where the ball
was every minute of the time. But they won’t tell you what Betty said
when Phillip expressed a fear that she was cold, nor what Phillip
answered when Betty asked him if he danced, nor how Betty looked when
Phillip asked if she would mind very much if he called some old day.
But, for that matter, neither will I.
Between the halves, when the day was already won and frantic wearers
of the Crimson were shouting themselves hoarse, and delighted coaches
were thumping each other’s shoulders and shaking hands on the slightest
excuse; when the last of the liberated toy balloons were speeding
off into the gray distance and the _tramp_, _tramp_ of numbed feet
made a martial accompaniment to the joyous talk and laughter, Everett
Kingsford leaned over and addressed himself to Phillip.
“How do you and Betty agree on Emerson?” he asked gravely.
“Emerson?” Phillip stared blankly.
“Emerson? Who is he?” Betty looked perplexed.
Kingsford laughed and turned back to Miss Wayland.
Phillip could hear him talking in low tones to her and presently she
was laughing softly. Betty demanded to be told. Betty’s demands were
already law. Phillip explained. Betty frowned charmingly.
“Everett’s always making fun of me,” she declared. “I’m afraid you’ve
already discovered how ignorant I am, Mr. Ryerson. I――I don’t know a
thing, really and truly! Do you care _much_ for Emerson and Thoreau?”
“Hate them both,” answered Phillip heartily.
“Oh, but you mustn’t _hate_ them!”
“Mustn’t I?”
“No; you must just not care a great deal for them.”
“Very well, I don’t care a great deal for them, Miss Kingsford.”
“That’s nice,” answered Betty, apparently much relieved. “I respect
them both, of course, and think they were really very great men, but I
don’t think people have any right to talk about them the way they do.
Now that they’re dead, why can’t they be left in peace?”
“I know. It’s――it’s mighty mean, I think.”
“Yes. Then you’re not――not disappointed?” asked Betty. “You don’t
_mind_ if I don’t talk to you about your soul, and Emerson, and the
other man?”
“Disappointed!” cried Phillip. “I’m mightily pleased.”
“Honestly? And you don’t think I’m frightfully ignorant?”
“I think――I think――――”
“Yes?”
Phillip was looking at her very, very ardently and Betty dropped her
dark-brown eyes and studied her score-card.
“I think you’re――――” But there he stopped again. He didn’t dare.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?” asked Betty in apparent surprise.
She darted a glance at him and straightway decided not to press the
subject. There are more fitting places than a crowded grand stand for
hearing certain things.
“I’ll――I’ll tell you some day,” answered Phillip softly.
“O-oh!” murmured Betty. “I suppose, then, I shall have to wait, shan’t
I?” she asked cheerfully. Phillip wished she had exhibited a less
philosophic spirit.
“Oh, I daresay you don’t care very much what I think,” he said rather
aggrievedly. Betty shook her head and for the hundredth time pushed a
lock of pale brown hair from her face.
“But I do, of course,” she answered gravely. “I like people to
think――well of me, and especially Everett’s friends.”
“Oh,” said Phillip. Then, with elaborate carelessness, “I suppose he
has lots of friends, hasn’t he?”
“M-m, yes, a good many, I guess.”
“And――er――do they all――that is――――”
“Like me?” asked Betty without embarrassment. “I don’t know, I’m sure.
And――and I don’t care whether some do, after all. I guess it’s only the
ones I like that――I like to have like me.” She laughed merrily. “Can
you understand all that rigmarole?”
“You said you cared what I thought,” said Phillip rashly.
“Did I?”
“Didn’t you?”
“I may have. Why?”
“Oh――why, because if you care what I think and you only care what
people that you like think, why――why――――”
“Oh, dear,” cried Betty, “that’s worse than Emerson! And you know I
don’t care a great deal for Emerson.”
“Nor me, I reckon,” muttered Phillip. Betty turned a look of surprise
upon him.
“But I’ve only known you half an hour!” she objected.
“It’s nearly an hour,” corrected Phillip.
“Really? It doesn’t seem that long, does it?”
“No!” he answered fervently. And was comforted.
Yes, dear reader, that is a very fair sample of their discourse; not
startlingly interesting to you, or to me, but to Phillip one of the
most brilliant, absorbing conversations ever held since Adam and Eve
first exchanged views on the weather. When the game was over and
Phillip had piloted Betty down the steps as carefully as though she
had been a piece of favrile glass instead of the very healthy and
able young lady she was, and when they had paused for a moment to
view the tempestuous scene before them, in which a dozen or so of
crimson-sleeved players rose and sank in a sea of swaying enthusiasts,
Betty turned to him.
“Wasn’t it glorious!” she cried.
And Phillip, looking straight into her eyes, and having in mind
something entirely apart from the victory, answered simply and
sincerely:
“_Great!_”