XIX
As it happened, we made a poor start. Turning the corner into Broadway, we found ourselves caught in the jam of the theatre traffic, and our car was brought to a halt in front of the “Empire Varieties.” If you have been on any Broadway between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, you can imagine the sight; the flaring electric signs, the pictures of the head line artists, the people waiting to buy tickets, and the crowds on the sidewalk pushing past. There was one additional feature, a crowd of “rah-rah boys,” with yellow and purple flags in their hands, and the glory of battle in their eyes. As our car halted, the cheer-leader gave a signal, and a hundred throats let out in unison:
“Rickety zim, rickety zam,
Brickety, stickety, slickety slam!
Wallybaloo! Billybazoo!
We are the boys for a hullabaloo—Western City!”
It sounded all the more deafening, because Bertie, in the front seat, had joined in.
“Hello!” said I. “We must have won the ball-game!”
“You bet we did!” said Bertie, in his voice of bursting self-importance.
“Ball-game?” asked Carpenter.
“Foot-ball,” said I. “Western City played Union Tech today. Wonder what the score was.”
The cheer leader seemed to take the words out of my mouth. Again the hundred voices roared:
“What was the score?
Seventeen to four!
Who got it in the neck?
Union Tech!
Who took the kitty?
Western City!”