“Everybody get wood!” “What’s it for?” “’Rah for the bonfire!” “Who’s doing it?” “Wood, wood, get wood, fellows!”
One of the first to reach the scene was Cobb, 1901. A dozen others were close behind him.
“Hello, what’s up? What we celebrating?” he asked breathlessly; then he caught a glimpse of the thin, bespectacled visage of Barclay, and gasped, “Why, why, it’s old Barclay!”
“’Rah for Barclay, old grind!” shouted another. “He’s the stuff! Everybody get wood!”
At that moment a worn-out hen-coop arrived suddenly on the scene, and a shower of sparks told that the fire was gaining courage.
“But, say, old man, what’s it all about?” asked Cobb.
“We are celebrating a victory over Yale,” answered Barclay, soberly, as he adjusted a plank with his foot. There was no undue excitement exhibited by this tall figure in the long ulster, but underneath his calm the blood raced madly through his veins, and a strange and well-nigh uncontrollable joy possessed him as the flames leaped higher and higher. He stooped and picked a brand from the edge of the fire. He waved it thrice about his head, sending the flaring sparks over the ever-increasing crowd.
“Hooray!” he yelled, in queer, uncanny tones.
“’Rah, ’rah, ’rah!” answered the throng. “Everybody get wood!”
“But what’d we do to ’em?” asked Cobb, wonderingly. “What was the victory?”