“Good luck?” demanded Joe. “How do you make that out? These aren’t my glad rags, that’s a fact, but still paint is paint, and I don’t want it daubed all over me. Good luck? Huh!”
“Of course it is,” went on Spike. “Don’t you see? That’s red—Harvard’s hue. We play them next week, you’ll pitch and we’ve got their color already. Hurray! We’re going to win! It’s an omen!”
“Cæsar’s pineapples!” exclaimed Ricky. “So it is. I’m going to grind out a song on it,” and, having rather a knack with verse, he was soon scribbling away in rhyme. “How’s this?” he demanded a few minutes later. “Listen fellows, and pick out a good tune for it,” and he recited:
“We’ve got Harvard’s colors,
We’ll tell it to you.
The red always runs
At the sight of the blue.
So cheer boys, once more,
This bright rainbow hue,
The Red will turn purple
When mixed with the blue!”
“Eh? How’s that?” he asked proudly. “Pretty nifty I guess! Your Uncle Pete isn’t so slow. I’m going to have the fellows practice this for the game, when you pitch, Joe.”
“Maybe I won’t.”
“Oh, yes you will. But what do you think of it?”
“Rotten!” exclaimed Spike.
“Punk!” was the opinion of Slim Jones, who had entered in time to hear the verse. “Disinfect it, Ricky.”