and there a yellow one." A human cloisonne cup. A cup for a giant to sip from, with the smooth green dregs of a giant's crême-de-menthe in the bottom.
"Boy," breathed Jock softly.
He always had rather a bad time at football games because there was a perpetual lump in his throat of which he was dismally conscious and ashamed. This had nothing, whatever to do with the score; if his team was winning he felt it even more acutely than when they were losing. It was his reaction to the spirit of the occasion—to the long low rumble of "Fight! Fight! Fi-i-ight," and to the tense electric air. When a player was hurt and borne from the field Jock felt no emotion beyond a sporting interest in how badly he was hurt and how much his loss would mean to the team. But when a player was hurt, and lay prostrate, and after a time rose doggedly to carry on—then he could have wept aloud for the thrill that ran all through him. Courage. That was what caused the lump. Grim relentless courage, and flash of glory, and the boom in his ears of forty thousand voices cheering one man.
While the game was in progress he quite forgot Eunice. She became merely a shoulder that braced itself against his and a source of murmured comments, only remotely heard. But between the halves he was made aware of her in a most unfortunate way.
They had risen to their feet to stretch themselves and to gaze down the slope of heads that lay below them. And Jock heard a girl say, "For cat's sake will you look at the coat on Eunice Hathaway!"
The remark came from back of him somewhere. A man answered, "Yeah. Good, isn't it?"
Then the girl: "Good? I should say it is good. That's real mink, and worth more money than Brad
