The rosy wine we drink!"
"Yea!"
"A little more close harmony!"
A great shout acclaimed the chorus and another song was started.
Hunter and Bain were opposite each other, surrounded as it were by adherents, each already aware of the other, measuring glances, serious, unrelaxing, never unbending, never departing a moment from the careful attitude of critical aloofness. In the midst of the rising hilarity and the rebellious joy of newly gained liberty, the two rival leaders sat singing, but not of the song, the same placid, maliciously superior smile floating over the perfectly controlled lips of Bain, while in the anointed gaze of Hunter was a ponderous seriousness which at that age is ascribed to a predestined Napoleonic melancholy.
"Solo from Buck Waters!"
"Solo!"
"On the chair!"
"Yea, Buck Waters!"
Yielding to the outcry Waters was thrust upward.