InterLude

Interceding in a gas-torch week that has witnessed the call and dusty answer of the several warring political greats, a football game, strange anomaly, provides a breathing spell. Twenty-five years of Stadium tradition are rounded out in this afternoon's Dartmouth gridiron appearance. Athletics were a casual pastime when the men from Hanover first came to Cambridge; it was that long ago. And yet, such is the effect of partial anti-climax, popular and newspaper hysteria are at an ultimate low ebb. Cadets and campaigners, Dempseys and dirigibles have harrowed the public. For the only time in recent memory, there is a possibility that the fifty few thousand who attend the game will be composed of those who actually are interested in the jarring combat of two powerful elevens, and not in the incidental festivities. The lust for sensation has temporarily been sated.

Whatever the comparative quietude of the press, there remains among Harvard men, a concern with the Dartmouth visit that years have made impervious to such things as elections, international issues, or tattered victory records. The invasion by a kindred student body brings with it opportunity to throw open dormitory and club doors, to renew acquaintance, to exchange opinion, to receive eulogies or brick-bats. Such an inclusively important feature of the fall could not be disregarded. It will not be. The gamble of the ticket draw and the subsequent seats in the wooden stands are minor hazards that will affect only the undergraduates. They add actually to the zest of the occasion. A remote view of the game is not sufficient to sour enthusiasm for the rest of the week.

Boston cuts pay hay during the two twenty-four hour days. It brightens on Green gold. But the men who derive the most profit and the greatest pleasure from the New Hampshire pilgrims stay are those who have among them friends to lodge and entertain. They are fortunately numerous.