They sang it at the top of their voices as they came down the hill, arm in arm, and crossed the meadow toward the village. There was no one to hear, and they wouldn’t have cared if there had been. Tom Dyer sang the bass, Alf Loring the tenor and Dan Vinton whatever was most convenient, since about the best he could do in a musical way was to make a noise. It was a glorious morning, in the middle of October, and there was a frosty nip in the air that made one want to sing or dance, and as they were in a hurry and dancing would have delayed them, they sang.
“That’s a bully song, Dan,” said Alf. “You ought to think of another verse, though, something with more ginger in it. How’s this:
“‘We will knock them full of dents
And we’ll send them home in splints?’”
“Rotten,” growled Tom. “It doesn’t rhyme.”
“It doesn’t have to rhyme,” said Alf. “It’s poetic license.”
“Well, you’re no poet. What you need is a dog license, Alf!”
“He’s just peeved because he didn’t think of it himself,” explained Alf to Dan. “He’s one of the most envious dubs in school. Personally I consider it a very pretty sentiment and just chock-full of—er—poetic feeling. And I won’t charge you a cent for it, Dan; it’s yours. No, no, not a word! I won’t be thanked.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be,” said Tom. “If you put that in the song, Dan, I’ll stop playing, and howl!”
“That might be a good idea,” responded Alf. “I’ll bet you’d cut more ice howling than you would playing, Tom.”