banner was flying from the pole, a blue banner with an orange S. Wayne Gifford loosened the ropes. Down fluttered the banner, and the boys reverently took off their hats. Gifford caught the banner be¬ fore it touched the ground and gathered it into his arms. The song-leader stepped beside him. He lifted his hand, sang a note, and then the boys sang with him, huskily, sadly, some of them with tears streaming down their cheeks:
“Sanford, Sanford, mother of men, Love us, guard us, hold us true. Let thy arms enfold us; Let thy truth uphold us. Queen of colleges, mother of men— Alma mater, Sanford—hail! Alma mater—Hail!—Hail!”
Slowly the circle broke into small groups that straggled wearily across the campus. Hugh, with two or three others, was walking behind two young professors—one of them, Ailing, the other, Jones of the economics department. Hugh was almost literally broken-hearted; the defeat lay on him like an awful sorrow that never could be lifted. Every inch of him ached, but his despair was greater than his physical pain. The sharp, clear voice of Jones broke into his half-deadened consciousness. “I can’t understand all this emotional excite¬ ment,” said Jones crisply. “A football game is a
