She was going to teach in a stuffy little school in the wilds of Maine, and Ethel Eaton, who had been taught in that school, was going to travel abroad for a year—it was a strange shuffle.
What, was it half-past eleven? Impossible! But somebody had started up their great song that had been their pet one since freshman year, and they were shouting it till the Gym rang:
Hurrah! hurrah! the yellow is on top,
Hurrah! hurrah! the purple cannot drop;
We are Ninety-yellow and our fame shall never stop,
'Rah, 'rah, 'rah, for the seniors!
They sang all the verses, and then the watchman and the superintendent of buildings, waiting like sleuth-hounds to prevent any demonstration from without, gritted their teeth and dashed furiously down the wrong stairs as Ninety-green, who had softly assembled at the back of the Gym, having come from different directions, burst into the traditional tribute:
Oh, here's to Ninety-yellow,
And her fame we'll ever tell—oh!
"'Ere, 'ere! stop that now! Miss Sutton, it ain't allowed—will you please to go 'ome quietly! No, they ain't a-comin' h'out till you go—'e says they ain't!"