Polly's Senior Year at Boarding School Part 9

"Yes, a little one," Bob said; "but not enough to matter. I can't start training, and I'll be too stiff to do any good by Spring.

"Tough luck!" Polly laid her hand unconsciously on his arm. "Don't give up, though. You may make good if you work awfully hard. May's ages off."

"Gee!" Bob delivered this inelegant exclamation with feeling. "Poll, you're the best little sport I ever knew. You always understand. Any other girl would have said that running was bad for my heart, and expected me to be consoled."

Polly was overcome by such frank praise. She tried to think of something to say, and finally decided on:

"Oh, rot! Isn't it time to go back?"

The theater that night was very amusing. Lois and Frank were in gales of laughter every minute.

"If you laugh any more," Lois said, between the acts, "you'll never be able to play to-morrow."

"But I won't have to play," Frank protested, "unless an awful lot of awful things happen. Anyway, don't let's talk about it, honestly, Lois."

He lowered his voice, "I get cold all over when I think of it. I'm almost sure I'd lose my nerve if I had to go in."

"You never would," Lois admonished, crisply. "You'd find it, any amount of it, the minute you heard the signals. I hope--oh, how I hope you have to play."

"Well, if I do," Frank grumbled, "it won't do me any good to remember you're on the Harvard side."

"Now, you're silly," Lois teased. "What difference does it make where I sit, so long as I root for Princeton?"

"Do you mean that?" Frank demanded. "Do you honestly want us to win?

Gee, that's great! I sort of thought, because of Bob--"

"Oh, Bob! Well, you see there's Polly," Lois said, demurely, just as the curtain rose for the last act.

Thanksgiving morning was all glorious suns.h.i.+ne. There was not a single cloud in the sky, and the air was just the right football temperature.

"Everything O. K., so far," Bob said, joyfully, as he joined his mother and the girls at breakfast. "What'll we do this morning to kill time?"

"Lois wants to go to the Library and see the Abbey pictures," Mrs.

Farwell answered.

Bob looked his disgust--he appealed to Polly--but for the first time she deserted him.

"I'm going too, Bobby. I guess you'll have to find something to do until luncheon," she said.

Mrs. Farwell and the girls wandered about the Library all morning, and returned to the hotel ten minutes later than the time set by Bob for luncheon.

He and his roommate, Jimmy Thorpe, were waiting for them in the lobby.

"I knew you'd be late," Bob greeted them. "We'll have to dash through lunch. Did you enjoy the pictures?" he asked, sarcastically.

"Darling Bobby, are we late? We're so sorry. How do you do, Jimmy? It's awfully nice you can be with us." Mrs. Farwell was so contrite and charming that Bobbie's momentary huff disappeared as it always did before his mother's smile.

"Well, we didn't have to hurry so very much," she said, when luncheon was over and they were preparing to start. "Now are you sure we are going to be warm enough?"

Bob and Jim looked at each other, over the sweaters and steamer rugs they were loaded down with, and winked.

"Here's the taxi," Jim announced. "Come on, Lois."

After a considerable time lost in stopping and threading their way among the other hundreds of cars, they reached the Harvard Stadium at last.

"Bob, how wonderful and how huge it looks to-day," Polly exclaimed, as they entered their section, and she caught sight of the immense bowl, and the hundreds of people.

They had splendid seats, near enough to really see and recognize the players. Jim and Bob explained the score card, talked familiarly about all the players and pointed out the other under graduates who had won importance in other sports.

"Oh, but I wish I were a boy," Polly said, longingly. "Imagine the thrill of being part of all this. Why it makes school look pale and insignificant in comparison."

"I don't wish I were a boy," Lois said decidedly. "I'd much rather be a girl, but, I'll admit, football does make basket ball look rather silly."

"Oh, I don't know!" Jim said, condescendingly. "Basket ball's a good girls' game."

Polly was indignant.

"Jim, what a silly thing to say. You know perfectly well that just as many boys play it as girls. The only difference is that when we play we have to use our minds--while boys--"

"Yes, we know, Poll," Bob interrupted, "boys have no minds; therefore their rules must be less rigid. But don't be too hard on us."

"I judge Polly plays basket ball." It seemed to be Jim's day for blunders.

"Plays basket ball--oh, ye G.o.ds!" Bob wrung his hands. "Why, Jim, surely I told you that she was no less than captain of her team. Personally, I think she deserves the t.i.tle of general."

Polly laughed in spite of herself.

"Bob, you're a mean tease. But just wait. I'll ask you both up for field day, and--"

"Sh--! here they come," Bob warned as a prolonged cheer announced the arrival of the teams.

The game was on.

Everybody stood up and shouted. And then a tense silence followed, as the first kick-off sent the pigskin hurtling into the air.

Any one who has seen a football game knows how perfectly silly it is to attempt a description of it. Polly and Lois could both tell you all the rules and explain the most intricate maneuvers, if you gave them plenty of time to think it out; but with the actual plays before them, they were carried away by excitement and gave themselves up completely to feeling the game, rather than understanding it. They watched the ma.s.sed formation with breathless anxiety, thrilled at every sudden spurt ahead which meant a gain; groaned when the advance was stopped by one of those terrifying tackles, and experienced the exultant joy only possible when the pigskin sails unchecked between the goal posts.

Between periods they had to appeal to Jim and Bob for the score. At one point in the game, Bob turned hurriedly to Lois.

"Watch out for Frank," he said, excitedly; "He'll be on in a minute."

"How do you know?" Lois demanded. "Oh, Bobby, I wish they wouldn't; he, he--said he'd lose his nerve." Lois had suddenly lost hers.

"You watch that man," Bob pointed, "they'll take him out, see if they don't; he's all in. Frank will play next period."

He was right. When the whistle blew, Frank, after a few hurried words with the coach, tore off his sweater and ran out to the field.

Lois' eyes were glued to him whenever he was in sight, and during one tackle when he was completely lost under the ma.s.s of swaying arms and legs, she forgot her surroundings and the fact, most important in Bob's and Jim's eyes, that she was on the Harvard side--by shouting l.u.s.tily.

"Stop it, stop it! Get off, you'll smother him!"