“More’s the pity,” growled Elliot. “We’re not proud of him. Do you suppose any of us will ever turn into case-hardened octopuses like that? Ginger! I’ll make a try at least not to be a disgrace to my Alma Mater.” With that, as his guest sat quiet, his eyes on his cigar, “We’re giving Mr. Lord a dickens of a gay time,” Elliot announced cheerfully. “Unloading all our kicks for his benefit. Now cut it out, fellows. Mr. Lord’s not crazy about our great thoughts on political economy. He’s no captain of industry—” All at once he seemed to realize that in fact they did not know what their guest might be. “You said you were a lawyer, didn’t you?” he demanded a bit anxiously.
Trefethen smiled. “I’ve been called as bad as that,” he answered truthfully—for he had been admitted and had practised twenty years ago. And the boy was quite satisfied.
“That’s all right,” he said, relieved. “Pearly Gates, you sing.”
And Pearly’s lovely voice floated out as promptly and as easily as if some one had started a music-box. First an old song adapted to the football captain of the year, and all the room—but one—joined in as he led it:
Here’s to Dick Elliot, Dick Elliot—
Here’s to Dick Elliot, he’s with us to-night.
He’s with us, God bless him; he’s with us, God bless him;
Here’s to Dick Elliot, he’s with us to-night.
With its never-ending chorus of
Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug—