There follows a rush of the old fellows, all eager to gain a place on the fence.
Then the band plays all the old college songs, and for several hours to come these hilarious old gray-beards will bawl and howl to the strains of the band.
But ’Umpty-six is not the only class mixed up in this general blow-out. Other and younger classes are there, back for occasions of lesser significance than the silver-wedding. Nearly a thousand Yale men are surging about Osborn corner, which is kept brilliantly lighted by the glare of Egyptian red lights. Judging by the deafening noise, it would seem that the entire stock of fireworks in the city must have been set off already. But they will keep coming in wagon-loads.
And in the midst of all this tumultuous rejoicing the man who has won for Yale the baseball championship of the season is not forgotten.
“Long cheer for Merriwell!” shrieks an ’Umpty-sixer.
Then the whole vast crowd of Yale men pause to roar out the cheer for a Yale man who to-night is more famous than all others.
No wonder that Merriwell himself felt a thrill. No wonder some of his friends laughed while their eyes were dimmed with tears.
And on his arm was the pressure of a hand—the hand of the girl he loved. And at his side was a radiantly beautiful girl, who felt that on this day of his glory her joy must be even greater than his.
Hans Dunnerwurst was sobbing.
“Whut in thunder is the matter with yeou?” blurted Ephraim Gallup, giving the Dutch youth a punch.