Thousands of feet "tramp-tramped," keeping time against the stands.

The Yates band and the Harwell band were striving, from opposite ends of the field, to drown each other's strains.

And the blue and crimson fluttered and waved, the sun sank lower toward the western horizon, and the shadows crept along the ground.
"There will be just one more score," predicted the knowing ones as they buttoned their ulsters and overcoats up at the throat and crouched along the side lines, like so many toads.

"But who will make it I'm blessed if I know!" Then Harwell lined up along the fifty-five-yard line, with the ball in their possession, and the south goal behind them.

And Yates scattered down the field in front.