"Three times three for Professor Dablee!" The cheers that followed were mixed with laughter, and the two professors moved off, but not until the identity of the second had been revealed, and the air had filled with the refrain of "'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! Pollock!"
"They look as though they ought to win; don't you think so?" asked one of them.
"Yes, they look like that; every eleven does. You'd think, to see them before a game, that nothing short of a pile-driver or dynamite could drive them an inch. And a few days later they return, heartbroken and defeated."
Across the square floated a husky bellow:
"Now, then, fellows! Once more! All together! Three times three for Harvard!"
The band played wildly, frenziedly, out of time and tune; the crowd strained its tired throats for one last farewell slogan; the men in the barge waved their hands; the horses jumped forward; a belated riser in Holyoke threw open a front window, and drowsily yelled, "_Shut up_"; and the Harvard eleven sped on its way up the avenue, and soon became a blur in the gray vista.
The wearied youth faced his accuser, struck an attitude indicative of intense despair, and then joyfully seized the opportunity.
"Fellows! Fellows! Hold on! Three times three for Jim--Jim--who'd you say?"
"Three times three for Jimpson! Now, then, all together!"
"Say--who _is_ Jimpson?" shouted a dozen voices at once.
"Don't know. Don't care. Three times three for Jimpson!"
And so that youth, had he but known it, received a cheer, after all. But he didn't know it--at least, not until long afterward, when cheers meant so much less to him.
DEAR MOTHER: I can imagine your surprise upon receiving a letter from this place, when your dutiful son is supposed to be "grinding" in No. 30 College House, Cambridge. And the truth is that the dutiful son is surprised himself. Here am I, with some thirty-five other chaps, making ready for the big football game with Yale to-morrow. Here is how it happened:
Yesterday morning, Brattle--he's our captain--came to my room, routed me out of bed, and told me to report to the coaches for morning practise. You know, I've been trying for substitute right half-back. Ward, the regular, sprained his knee in the Dartmouth game, and a few days ago it went lame again. So now Sills has Ward's place, and I'm to substitute Sills. And if he gets laid out--and maybe I ought to hope he won't--I go in and play. What do you think of that? Of course Sills may last the entire game; but they say he has a weak back, only he won't own up to it, and may have to give up after the first half. Gates told me this on the train. Gates is the big center, and weighs 196. He is very kind, and we chummed all the way from Boston. I didn't know any of the fellows, except a few by sight--just enough to nod to, you know.