"Well, let's go to a show tonight", said Head Coach Isaac Walton of Harvard. "Come to think of it we have a game with somebody-or-other on Saturday, but here it is only Wednesday. There's no use being hard on you boys with three whole days left for intensive training."

A half-hour later the team was turning somersaults and tipping over taxicabs out in front of the Tremens Theatre. Having ripped up half the pavement and broken all the glass in the lobby they were filling quietly in when the doorman (Yale '99) and the box-office individual (Princeton 01) and the manager (wherever he went) conspired to stop their progress. The charge of intoxication was, of course, ridiculous.

Down in New Haven Coach Skullen Bones' men were tapping each other on the back and going to their rooms, or to anybody else's room where there was enough ice. A pre-war hush pervaded their training camp: you could have heard a bottle drop.

The weather man announced late last night that the usual condition of dampness would hinder the players today. Cambridge was pretty well soaked this morning and was still under a heavy fog.

On the eve of the big contest the Yale backfield was under oath to kick anything over the bar that wasn't imported, to send every pass out to the sidelines, and to kill all the Scotch on the field. The Harvard team swallowed hard but made no statement. It was fortunate that none was asked for, Harvard was thinking of the Old Army Game.