Then more waving of flags, and yells for our prize captain and our agile quarter-back: “Rah, rah, rah, Jerry Wilson! Rah, rah, rah, Harriman! Western City, Western City, Western City! W-E-S-T-E-R-N-C-I-T-Y! Western City!”
You have heard college yells, no doubt, and can imagine the tempo of these cries, the cumulative rush of the spelled out letters, the booming roar at the end. The voice of Bertie beat back from the wind-shield with devastating effect upon our ears; and then our car rolled on, and the clamor died away, and I answered the questions of Carpenter. “They are college boys. They have won a game with another college, and are celebrating the victory.”
“But,” said the other, “how do they manage to shout all together that way?”
“Oh, they've practiced that, of course.”
“You mean—they gather and practice making those noises?”
“Surely.”
“They make them in cold blood?”
I laughed. “Well, the blood of youth is seldom entirely cold. They imagine the victory while they rehearse, no doubt.”
When Carpenter spoke again, it was half to himself. “You make your children into mobs! You train them for it!”
“It really isn't that bad,” I replied. “It's all in good temper—it's their play.”