Then, with all the seniors on their feet, with their heads uncovered, the leader waved his white baton, and over one hundred voices sang "Tune every heart and every voice, Bid every care withdraw," and the rest of the college hymn.
Many of the audience joined in, and nobody thought it fresh in them; and Symington would have liked to join in too, only he did not know how. He felt very queer for some reason, and forgot who was standing beside him for a moment. The poetry of the scene was getting into him. He didn't know that, of course, but he had a vague feeling that this was living, and that it was good for him to be there.
When the hymn was finished the class cheered for itself and for the college, and for itself again; and the senior singing was over.
From all over the front campus there suddenly broke out in many loud discordant keys, "Hello, Billy Minot" and "Hello, Jimmy Linton" and "hello" Johnnys and Harrys and Reddys and Dicks, and Drunks, and Deans, and Fathers, and Mables and horses and dogs and houses and others. As each found the man he wanted, an arm or two was thrown about a neck or two, and they started off for some other part of the campus or town.
The captain had also helloed for someone. Symington was left alone for a moment. But he was not exactly alone. He listened to the scraps of talk as the fellows moved past. "Pretty good singing this evening.... Get to work now.... At Dohm's.... I told him to come up.... New York to get advertisements.... The Trigonometry.... Trials for the Gun Club.... Princetonian Subscriptions now.... The mandolin to some girls that came to see the game with him.... You damn sour ball." Some of them were humming the last notes of the song. Others were saying nothing.
A loud clear voice beside him called "Hello, Charlie Symington." It was Tucker looking for him in the dusk, and he called him just as they called to college men. Symington was to meet the captain again later on. Tucker put his arm about Charlie's shoulders as they stepped along toward Reunion. Perhaps he did it unconsciously.
"You can amuse yourself with these," said Tucker, tossing into Charlie's lap a copy of the Bric-a-Brac, which he had read long ago at school, and a lot of photographs. "And if you want a nap," he added "just read that." He threw across the room the last number of the Nassau Lit. That's a very old joke.
Tucker then turned to his desk and got to work over something. Symington did not know what it was, and of course did not ask. But it was not fifteen minutes before "Hello-o, Tommy Tucker" came in a loud voice from the quad, below. Tucker frowned and did not look up.
Then it came again, with a sharper accent on the second syllable, "Helloo, Tommy Tucker."
"Hello," Tucker replied, shortly.