To-night football was
king.
Out through the crowd came a score of deep-chested young men
moving together as if to resist an attack, whereupon a mighty roar
went up. The cheer-leader increased his antics, and the barking
yell changed to a measured chant, to the time of which the army
marched down the street until the twenty athletes dodged in
through the revolving doors of a cafe, leaving Broadway rocking
with the tumult.
All the city was football-mad, it seemed, for no sooner had the
new-comers entered the restaurant than the diners rose to wave
napkins or to cheer. Men stepped upon chairs and craned for a
better sight of them; women raised their voices in eager
questioning. A gentleman in evening dress pointed out the leader
of the squad to his companions, explaining:
"That is Anthony--the big chap. He's Darwin K. Anthony's son.
You've heard about the Anthony bill at Albany?"
"Yes, and I saw this fellow play football four years ago. Say!
That was a game."
"He's a worthless sort of chap, isn't he?" remarked one of the
women, when the squad had disappeared up the stairs.
"Just a rich man's son, that's all. But he certainly could play
football."
"Didn't I read that he had been sent to jail recently?"
"No doubt.
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