They were in 7 Dudley, a cozy, comfortable room on the first floor of the dormitory. The hosts, Alf and Tom, were stretched out on the window seat, their legs apparently inextricably mixed. Dan was seated at the table where, for the past ten minutes, he had been scribbling and erasing. Supper had been over for an hour and they had discussed the events of the day to their hearts’ content. The football game with St. John’s had been played and won in two fifteen-minute halves and each of the three was comfortably weary and happy. The contest had not been a hard one, but the weather had been warm and, to use Tom’s expression, had “taken the starch out of a fellow.” The score, 11 to 0, wasn’t anything to boast of, and there had been discouraging features, but it was over with now and there was no more practice until Monday afternoon and this was no time to worry. Tom stretched his arms with a sigh of lazy contentment, kicked Alf in the shins, apologized sleepily and waited for Dan to read his effusion. Dan held the sheet to the light, frowned and hesitated.
“I don’t believe it’s quite as good as the other one,” he said apologetically.
“Who said the other was good?” asked Alf.
“You did.”
“Shut up and let him read it,” growled Tom. “Go ahead, Dan.”
“We-ell, here it is:
“‘All together! Cheer on cheer!
Victory is ours to-day!
Raise your voices loud and clear!
Yardley pluck has won the fray!
See, the vanquished foeman quails,
All his vaunted courage fails!
Flaunt the blue that never pales,
Fighting for old Yardley!’”
“That’s all right,” said Tom. “What’s the matter with it?”
“What are foeman quails?” asked Alf. “Besides, the plural of quail is quail and not quails.”