Truly Sunrise had never before known such an auspicious day,
such record-breaking gate receipts, nor such sure promise
of success. The game was called for half-past two.
It was three o'clock now and the line-up had not been formed.
Even the gentle wrangle over details and eligibility could hardly
have spun out so much time as seemed to the waiting throng
to be uselessly wasted now. Evidently, something was wrong.
The crowd grew impatient and demanded the cause.
Out in the open, the two squads were warming up for the fray,
while the officials hung fire in a group by the goal posts
and talked threateningly.

"What's the matter?"

"When will the freight be in?"

"Merry Christmas!"

So the crowd shouted. The songs were worn out, the yell-leaders
were exhausted, and the rooters were hoarse.

"Where's Vic Burleigh?" somebody called, and a chorus followed:

"Burleigh! Burly! Burlee! Come home! Come home! Come home!"

But Burleigh did not come.

"Maybe they are shutting him out," somebody else suggested, and the Sunrise
bleachers took fire. Calls for Burleigh rent the air, roars and yells
that threatened to turn this most auspicious college event into pandemonium,