Fourth Year Class—the Academy regulations forbade members of other classes accompanying the teams away from school—and the forty-odd boys looked very fine and manly in their cadet-blue cape-coats, below which tan-gaitered legs twinkled. They assembled at one end of the stand and gave their team a lusty welcome when it trotted on the gridiron, waving their blue-and-blue banners proudly. The dark blue and light blue of the flags was repeated in the costumes of the players, and their sweaters held the letters H. H. M. A. cunningly arranged, the first H taking the form of a football goal and the other letters appearing in the space under the cross-bar. But, in spite of the neat attire of players and supporters, Highland Hall was no dangerous adversary. The fellows, as Fudge explained to Gordon, were allowed only two hours a day for recreation and were coached by the Commandant, a grave martinet of a man who knew more of military tactics than football. Fudge and Gordon were seated on the bench, after a ten-minute workout, and Fudge, who had more flesh than he needed, was still breathing hard from his exertions.
"That's the coach over there," he said, nodding across the gridiron. "He's a terror, they say."
