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Shortly after eleven o'clock last Saturday morning, the vicinity of Sever Hall was the site of much activity. Harvard students, finishing up the last classes of the day in anticipation of a big afternoon at the stadium, dribbled out of Sever's wide portal in slovenly contrast to the ramrod posture and brass-buttoned uniforms of members of the Military Academy, who, collected in small dignified groups, were chatting away with one another in a way becoming cadets.
In the midst of this gathering, obviously the focal point for polite cadet eyes, were two rather robust ladies who had apparently travelled from afar to see, not Harvard, but the cadets in action against Harvard. The larger of the two ladies had taken it upon herself to be a guide for all those within shouting distance, for, with a fine combination of emphasis and scorn, she pointed a finger at the gaunt bulk of Sever standing solemnly, patiently, in the background.
"And do you know what this is?" she demanded in a traincaller's voice, which glued the attention of all on the building. "That's their Mess Hall over there."
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