“Better hurry up; the Thirties are at it,” he admonished them.
Over the wall of the buildings one heard not a sound in College Street; even in the archway one did not hear. As the belated men stepped into the campus the noise burst on them like a clap of thunder.
Bands played, lights flashed, brilliant figures wove and interwove, men’s voices filled all the air. Through the kaleidoscopic crowd a man might thread his way, but there was no empty space in the campus. It was pandemonium let loose. With that, one caught here and there a costume, a face, which one knew. Then, as they stood peering, out of the smoke and darkness, out of the mad uproar, coming to them as if out of a wood, was the head of a column of marching men. And the men wore blue blouses. The Thirties—his class—his friends. By the knowledge of the friend beside him he knew that. They came on, cheered, challenged, greeted now and again out of the waving, changing crowd, marching steadily along, the workmen of the nation.
And as they came, suddenly, by a miracle, the bands all stopped playing at once; there was a moment’s lull, and one heard individual voices in the half silence. And then their own band, the blue-bloused band of the Thirties, broke into music; an indeterminate chord, and it swung full into the familiar rhythm of “Amici.” The foremost men were at Phelps’s archway by now, and somebody shouted “Johnny Ellsworth,” as they saw him and connected the song with his singing of it that morning. And behold, all along the line they were calling his name, as if they knew, as if they welcomed him back to hope and life and undying friendship.
Ellsworth, dizzy with happiness, took the torch that “little old Saint Peter” thrust at him, and fell into line beside a fat, short, bald-headed man whose face shone to him like the face of an angel. Digby and Loomis were ahead; he had met their smiling eyes, and he knew with a choking gladness that they knew that he had a right in this column of efficient workmen; that he had not come with empty hands to Mother Yale; that he, too, brought his offering of honorable work to lay on her altar. He could not find his voice; but the ambassador, turning, threw back a word.
“Sing, you devil,” he ordered. “What are you good for, Johnny Ellsworth? Sing.”
And with that the voice came, and above the others, clear and sweet through all the others, it lifted suddenly, with its undertone of words unsaid, of things men never tell, of friendship eternal. The strong tones of the world-worn men followed that wonderful voice, and tears shone in some eyes as they sang, not knowing that the man who led them was sending up a thanksgiving.
So the Thirties marched about the campus, with torches flaring and bands playing and the classes shouting, and Ellsworth’s voice led them singing “Amici.”
THE CAPTAINS