“Thayer,” answered Clint.

In some ways the visitors had outplayed Brimfield. Chambers’ attack,
especially between the twenty-five-yard lines, had been far more varied
and effective. Her line, from tackle to tackle, had been stronger than
her opponent’s. Brimfield had been especially weak at the left of
centre, and a rsum of the game showed that Chambers had made
two-thirds of her line gains through Blaisdell and Saunders. Churchill,
who had replaced Blaisdell in the second half, had shown up no better on
defence. At the ends Brimfield had held her own, while her backs had
shown up superior to Chambers’. Chambers had outpunted Brimfield an
average of five yards at a kick and had placed her punts to better
advantage. In generalship both teams had erred frequently and there was
little to choose between them.

Their eyes met and they smiled. It was pleasantly warm in the little
restaurant, the sun was peeping in at the window, the odour of coffee
was more delightful than anything they had ever inhaled and it was
extremely good to stretch tired legs and ease aching muscles, and for
several minutes they were content to sit there and feast their hungry
eyes on the placards and enjoy in anticipation the cheer that was
to follow.

it, as it were, to my attention, or, should I say, force it on my
notice; or, perhaps, arouse my slumbering memory–”

the atmosphere, a veritable Indian summer day if ever there was one
The next day dawned fair and warm, with an almost imperceptible haze in
the atmosphere, a veritable Indian summer day if ever there was one.
After dinner, a rather more hearty meal than was served to the football
players on week-days, Clint went back to his room with the noble
intention of writing a fine long letter to his father and mother. There
had been complaints from Cedar Run of late to the effect that Clint’s
epistles were much too brief. Today he resolved to send at least eight
pages. He would tell them all about the fine weather and yesterday’s
game–mentioning quite incidentally his own part in it–and the football
spirit that prevailed throughout the Academy and–and–About this time
Clint found himself smothering a yawn and viewing distastefully the
writing pad in front of him. Through the open windows came the sound of
voices borne on the still, soft air, and he pushed back his chair and
wandered to the casement. Across the field the Autumn woods were brown
and sunlit and their depths filled with a purple haze. Boys were
strolling in couples and groups across the yellowing turf. After a
minute Clint went back to the table, looked indecisively at the still
clean sheet of paper awaiting his pen, picked up his cap from the chair
and, with a guilty backward glance, stole out of the room. He felt very
much as though he was playing hookey, a feeling which perhaps naturally
increased his pleasure as he ran down the stairs and issued forth on
the Row.

other
“And that’s the sort of stuff _I_ have to listen to!” exclaimed the
other. “Honest, Amy, you make the bummest jokes!”

you about it
“Who’s blaming you for it? Perish the thought, Dreer! I’m just telling
you about it.”