“Young gentlemen,” he fairly shouted, “I am ashamed of you! And I have come here to tell you so, and to tell you why I am ashamed.”
By sight, even, he was probably a stranger to most of those who, with one accord, now stared at the little, old-fashioned figure of this invader. They straightened up. There was a rustle and a creaking of their harnessed and padded bodies. Perhaps surprise held them dumb; or perhaps they were in a humour to take a scolding, even from an outsider, feeling that they deserved it. At any rate, only one of them spoke. I think it was the voice of Gadsden, the coach, that answered back.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked. “And who the devil let you in here, anyhow?”
“You may not know me,” snapped the Major; “but I know you.” He wheeled on his heels, aiming a jabbing forefinger at this man and that. “And I know you—and I know you—and I know you—and you, and you, too, young sir, over there in the corner. What is more, I knew your fathers before you.”
“Well, what of it?”
“What of it? This much of it: Your fathers before you were gallant Southern gentlemen—the bearers of honoured names; names revered in this state and in the Southern armies. That is what your fathers were. And what have you, their sons, proved yourselves to be this day? Cravens—that is the word. Cravens! Out of all the South you were chosen to represent your native land against these Northerners; and how have you repaid the trust imposed in you? By quitting—by showing the white feather, like a flock of dunghill cockerels—by raising the white flag at the first attack!” A babble of resentful voices arose:
“Say, look here; now—”
“What do you know about football?”
“Who gave you any license to butt in here?”
“Say, that's pretty rough!”