site stand, where were encamped the hosts of Union State, a similar assemblage. High on the topmost tier of seats on the Tate side of the field, in the exact center, telegraph instruments clicked and blase newspaper reporters bent over copy paper, ready to fling the results of each move on the field to the four corners of the earth. And, near them, a radio microphone and its gemi were already telling thousands about the crucial doings in Tate Stadium that crisp November afternoon.
Following the Tate cheer, a great silence reigned in the amphitheater.
In the center of the field a thin dime spun flashingly into the sun and dropped to the turf.
"Tails," Chester Trask had said quietly as the coin was in mid-course.
A little man in white shirt and trim knickerbockers stooped over the dime, flipped it into his palm and said, "Tails she is."
"We'll defend the south goal," said Captain Trask. The referee pocketed his money and tossed the new brown football under his arm to Trask, who in turn tossed it to his substitute, Childers, and ran off the field.
Captain McCoy, of Union State, trotted back briskly to his men. "Line up, fellows. We receive," he cried to them.
Big Childers hovered over the ball care-
