the victors. Those Harvard-Yale shooting-matches are a very pleasant sport, and prolific of the best of feeling.

Before it was time to start for the battle-ground at Hampden Park, certain financial transactions took place at the hotel. The slender balance at the Cambridge National Bank, standing in the name of John Rattleton, had been wiped out on the previous day, and most of it was now deposited at the office of the Massasoit House in the joint names of J. Rattleton and a man from New Haven, to become later the sole property of one or the other. As Jack turned away from the clerk's desk, he met the steady Holworthy face to face, and looked guilty.

"Have you been betting all your quarter's income as usual, you jackass?" demanded Holworthy.

"No, only what is left of it," said Rattleton. "Might as well. If I didn't bet it, I should have to lend it all to the rest of the gang, if we get beaten. And suppose we win, as we are almost sure to, and I hadn't taken a blue cent out of New Haven, and had to pay for my own celebration; how should I feel then?" he demanded, triumphantly.

"Will you ever grow up?" asked Holworthy, shaking his head. "Don't come running to me if we get thrashed, that is all. I hope you have kept your return ticket to Cambridge."

"Oh, yes, I have that," answered Rattleton, reassuringly; "and I have twenty-five dollars that I sha'n't put up unless I can get it up even. These fellows want odds here, but I think I can find even money on the field."

The Yale men are prudent bettors, however, and Jack did not "find even money" at Hampden Park. In fact, at the last minute he could not get a taker at any odds that even he was willing to offer. So he kept his last twenty-five dollars, and took his seat with his friends, feeling that he had not done his full duty.

All the morning the trains from New Haven, from Boston, from New York, from everywhere within a six-hour radius, had been pouring their heavy loads into Springfield. The north side of Hampden Park was a crimson-dotted mass, nearly ten thousand strong; the south side was equally banked up with blue, and the two colors ran into each other at the ends. It is never weary waiting for the foot-ball game to begin, when the weather is good. It is amusing to see the grads come swarming to the standard. Familiar and popular faces turn up, that have been out of college only a year or two, and their owners are greeted enthusiastically by their late companions. There, too, come numbers of faces far more widely known, those of governors, congressmen, judges, architects, and clergymen. Other faces, not so conspicuous, are apparently equally interesting over the top of glowing bunches of Jacqueminots, or of violets, as the case may be. Jack Rattleton's terrier Blathers, who was rarely separated from his master on any occasion, took more interest in a big dog with a blue blanket on the other side of the field, a familiar figure at recent foot-ball games.

At about half past two o'clock a great cheer rolled simultaneously along both sides of the field, and there trotted into the lists twenty-two young specimens of this "dyspeptic, ice-water-drinking" nation. It is sometimes said that Americans are overworked and deteriorated from the physical standard of the race; but as these youths of the Western branch pulled off their sweaters and faced each other, they did not look a very degenerate brood. Harvard had the ball and formed a close "wedge," Yale deployed in open line of battle. For a moment they stood there, all crouching forward, their heads well down, their great limbs tense, all straining for the word to spring at each other. There was not a sound around the field. "Play!" called the referee, and the Harvard wedge shot forward, and crashed with a sound of grinding canvas into the mass of blue-legged bodies that rushed to meet it.

For nearly three quarters of an hour the mimic battle was fought back and forth along the white-barred field. All the tactics of war were there employed; the centre was pierced, the flanks were turned, heavy columns were instantaneously massed against any weak spot. It was even, very even; but at last a long punt and a fumble gave Harvard the ball, well in the enemy's territory. A well-supported run around the right end by Jarvis, the famous flying half-back, two charges by Blake the terrible line-breaker, and a wedge bang through the centre drove the ball to Yale's five-yard line. Another gain of his length by the tall Rivers. Another. Then with their backs on their very line the Yale men rallied in a way they have. Down, no gain. Now for one good push or a drop kick! Time. The first half of the game was over and neither side had scored.

"Everything is lovely," declared Hudson. "We'll have the wind with us next half. We've had the best of it so far, as it is. It's a sure thing now." That was the general feeling among the Harvard supporters, and every one was happy. To the excited spectators the interval was a grateful relief, almost a necessary one to little Gray, who was nearly beside himself. He moaned every now and then over his physical inability to carry the Crimson in the lists.

After fifteen minutes' rest, the giants lined up again. The wind did seem to make a difference, for the play from the start was in Yale's ground. Jarvis the runner, who had been saved a good deal in the first half, was now used with telling effect.

Within fifteen minutes, an exchange of punts brought the ball to Yale's thirty-yard line. After three downs Spofford dropped back as though for a kick, and the Yale full-back retreated for the catch. Instead of the expected kick, Rivers the guard charged for the left end, and the blue line concentrated on that point to meet him, when suddenly Jarvis, with the ball tucked under his arm, was seen going like a whirlwind around the right, well covered by his supports. The Yale left-end was knocked off his legs, and the whole crimson bank of spectators rose to its feet with a roar, as it realized that Jarvis had circled the end. The Yale halfs had been drawn to their right, and every one knew that with Jarvis once past the forwards, no one could run him down.

On he went at top speed for the longed-for touch-line. The full-back, however, was heading him off, he had outrun his interferers, and a Yale 'Varsity full-back is not apt to miss a clear tackle in the open. They came together close to the line. Just as his adversary crouched for his hips, Jarvis leaped high from the ground, and hurled himself forward, head first. The Yale man, like a hawk, "nailed" him in the air, but his weight carried him on, and they both fell with a fearful shock—over the line! The next minute they were buried under a pile of men.

Then did all the Harvard hosts shout with a mighty shout that made the air tremble. For five minutes dignified men, old and young, cheered and hugged each other, and acted as they never do on any other occasion, except perhaps a college boat-race. The two elevens had grouped around the spot where the touch-down had been made. Suddenly the pandemonium ceased as the knot of players opened, and a limp form was carried out from among them. "It's Jarvis!" ran along the crowd, followed by an anxious murmur. A substitute ran back to the grand stand and shouted, "nothing serious, only his collar-bone." Those near the place where the plucky half-back was borne off the field could see that his face was pale, but supremely happy, and he smiled faintly as he heard the cheers of thousands, and his own name coupled with that of his Alma Mater.

The touch-down had been made almost at the corner too far aside for the try for goal to succeed. Spofford's kick was a splendid attempt, but the ball struck the goal post.

Then the battle began again. The Harvard team had suffered an irreparable loss in the fall of the famous Jarvis, but the score was four to nothing in its favor, and all it needed to do now was to hold its own. The Crimson was on the crest, and it was for the Blue to come up hill. Every one on the north side was elated and