“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;
Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;
Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;
Oh, poor old Robinson!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
And down with Robinson!
“Purple is the color of the stalwart and the brave;
Purple are the banners that the conq’ring heroes wave;
Purple are the violets above the lonely grave
Of poor old Robinson!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
Glory, glory to the Purple!
And down with Robinson!”
“Fine!” cried Anthony. “That’s the sort of thing! Let’s see it.” He took the paper and, turning it to the light, began to hum, then sing the words to the old marching song, nodding his head in time to the music. Anthony had about as much melody in his voice as a raven, but Jack, watching and listening eagerly from the bed, thought he sang beautifully, and was enormously pleased with the production. When the final refrain was reached he joined his own voice, rocking back and forth in ecstasy, and the concert ended in a final triumphant burst of mel— Well, no, not melody; let us say sound.
“Do you like it?” Jack asked, as eager for praise of his lines as any poet.
“Great!” Anthony answered. “And I should think it would do for a football song, too, wouldn’t it?”
“Would it?” cried Jack. “Yes, I believe it would! That’s fine, isn’t it? Of course, I don’t want you to think I’m stuck up, Anthony, but I really think it’s better than any that the Purple has published yet. What do you say?”
“Well, I haven’t read many of ’em; should think it might be, though. Better send it in right off, so it’ll be in time for the next issue, eh?”
“Yes, I’m going to mail it to-night; as soon as I make a good copy.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “I say, Anthony, would you mind copying it off for me? I write such an awful fist, you know.”
So they adjourned to Anthony’s room, and Jack leaned anxiously over his friend’s shoulder while the lines were copied in the most careful of copperplate chirography, folded, sealed, and addressed. Then Jack bought a one-cent stamp from Anthony and took the letter to the post-office, marching back through the warm June evening humming “Glory to the Purple,” and in imagination leading the cheering section at the Robinson game.
After he had gone to sleep he dreamed that he had been appointed poet-laureate of Erskine College, and was being driven along Main Street in Gilberth’s automobile between serried ranks of applauding students and townfolk, his brow adorned with a golden fillet of laurel-leaves. The automobile was extremely spacious, since it held besides himself not only the faculty, but Anthony and Joe Perkins and the entire baseball team. When he acknowledged the plaudits of the multitude he had to hold his laurel wreath on with one hand, which annoyed him a great deal. In the end the president solved the problem by tying it on with a red silk handkerchief. Then, at the moment of his greatest triumph, Showell arose from somewhere and shouted in a voice that drowned the cheers: “He didn’t compose it! The writing was Anthony Tidball’s! I saw it!” Jack tried to deny the awful slander, but none would listen to him, and he awoke breathless and despairing, to find the sunlight streaming in the end window and the robins singing matins to the early day.