The New Boy at Hilltop, and Other Stories

by Ralph Henry Barbour

"Har-vard! Har-vard! Har-vard! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! The Turkey! The Turkey! The Turkey!"

Then we went home.

I suppose this isn't much of a story, especially as there is no climax; and I've taken enough English to know that there ought to be some sort of a climax somewhere. Maybe, though, what happened next day will serve for one.

I got halfway over to the field and found I had forgotten my ticket, and had to go back to the room for it. McTurkle's door was ajar and through it came those awful sounds. I kicked it open and stuck my head in.

"Hello," I said. "Do you know what time it is? You'll be late."

McTurkle took the French horn from his face and wiped the mouthpiece gently with a silk handkerchief.

"Late?" he asked.

"Yes, for the game. You're going, of course, McTurkle?"

He shook his head, beaming affably through his glasses.

"No, no, I'm not going to attend the—ah—game." He waved a hand toward the book-covered table. "I shall be quite busy this afternoon, quite busy. But you have my—my best wishes. May the—ah—the mantle of victory fall upon the shoulders—"