McTurkle found his glasses, fixed them on his lean nose, and regarded Bud with genuine alarm.
"Not for a moment do we acknowledge defeat, sir! Not until the pall of
evening settles over the trampled field of battle shall we abandon hope.
The university stands firm and undismayed behind her loyal warriors.
Listen, McTurkey—McTurkle, I mean!"
Bud held up a hand imperiously and we all listened, McTurkle with his mouth wide open and his near-sighted eyes fixed in fascination upon the speaker's face. From outside came a long, impatient wail from two thousand throats:
"We-want-to-go-to-the-Stadium!"
"What of that, McTurkle!" demanded Bud, sternly. "The spirit of Harvard speaks! Her sons demand to be led to the scene of the conflict that with mighty voices they may—er—consecrate the field to victory!"
"But—but—what is it you wish me to do?" stammered the dazed McTurkle, visibly affected.
"To lead them!" thundered Bud.
"Lead them?" cried McTurkle. "Who? Me? Me—ah—lead?"
"Ah! You, McTurkle! You, with your French horn!"
"You—you want me to play it?"