The New Boy at Hilltop, and Other Stories

Bud held up a hand imperiously and we all listened, McTurkle with his mouth wide open and his near-sighted eyes fixed in fascination upon the speaker's face. From outside came a long, impatient wail from two thousand throats:

"We-want-to-go-to-the-Stadium!"

"What of that, McTurkle!" demanded Bud, sternly. "The spirit of Harvard speaks! Her sons demand to be led to the scene of the conflict that with mighty voices they may—er—consecrate the field to victory!"

"But—but—what is it you wish me to do?" stammered the dazed McTurkle, visibly affected.

"To lead them!" thundered Bud.

"Lead them?" cried McTurkle. "Who? Me? Me—ah—lead?"

"Ah! You, McTurkle! You, with your French horn!"

"You—you want me to play it?"

"We do. The college calls for you. Your duty, McTurkle, your duty to that college, to your fellows, summons you. Listen, McTurkle, to the voice of Duty and Patriotism!"

Apparently McTurkle's manner of listening was to hold his mouth open. He held it open now, wide open. Also his eyes. At last he said:

"But—but—I'm afraid I don't know any of the—ah—the college airs."

"What of that! It is your leadership we want; that and the inspiring strains of your dulcet horn. Play what you will, McTurkle, only play. Remember that the success of the team may depend upon you! That to-night it is our duty and pleasure to show the team that the whole college is behind them, eager and loyal in its support!"

Never before in three years of college life had any one ever wanted McTurkle to do anything. And now the knowledge that the whole university demanded his aid, his leadership, was too much for McTurkle. His face glowed; he leaped to his feet; a Greek lexicon crashed to the floor; McTurkle was transformed.

"I'll go!" he said, with majestic simplicity.

We cheered.

McTurkle feverishly wrested his French horn from its green bag, settled his glasses upon his aquiline nose, turned up the collar of his plaid lounging coat, and strode to the door.

We followed in triumph.

Over in front of the university they had cheered every one and everything, and now they were forming again into line of march.

"On to Soldier's Field!" they cried.

We hurried across to the head of the procession, McTurkle's long legs making us work hard to keep up with him. Arrived, Bud waved an arm for silence.

"Fellows!" he shouted. "Fellows!"

And when silence had fallen about us he swept his hand dramatically toward

McTurkle.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "the band!"

"A-a-a-aye!" they cheered. "Band! band!"

"Where's the band?" called those further down the line, and the news traveled fast until from far down by Thayer came wild paeans of delight.

"Where'd they get it? … Where is it? … We want 'On Soldier's

Field'! … We want 'Veritas'! … Strike up! Move on, there! …

'Ray for the band! … A-a-a-aye! Band! band!"

Up at the head of the line we were all laughing and shouting for fair. McTurkle, beaming delightedly through his glasses, his head held back inspiritingly and the folds of his plaid jacket waving in the November wind, placed the French horn to his lips, took a mighty breath and—the procession moved forward to the strains of "Annie Laurie!"

Now, I've heard since then that the French horn has a compass of only four octaves and is principally useful as an orchestral adjunct; that, in short, its ability is limited and its use as a solo instrument slight. All I can say is that the person who said that doesn't know a French horn; anyway, he doesn't know McTurkle's French horn. Four octaves be blowed! McTurkle went fourteen, or I'll eat my hat! Why, the way he put that thing through its paces was a caution! And as for—er—variations and such!—well, you ought to have heard him, that's all I've got to say!

Out into the avenue we turned, through the Square and down Boylston Street. The line was so long that the cars were held up for ten minutes, and Bud was for circling back and holding them up ten minutes more. And all the while McTurkle, thin, gaunt, but impressive, marched at the head and informed us startlingly and with convincing emphasis that for Bonnie Annie Laurie he'd lay him down and dee. And we took up the refrain, and hurled it back to the gray November sky. Further along they were singing, "Hard luck for poor old Eli," and still further down the line they were informing the dark front of the post office that the sun would set in Crimson as the sun had set before. And way, way back they were cheering like Sam Hill.

Oh, that was a glorious night! Talk about enthusiasm! We had it and to burn. We exuded it at every step. Enthusiasm was a drug on the market. Down by the river McTurkle gave Annie Laurie her final death blow and started in on the overture to "Martha." That carried us as far as the Locker Building, and we marched on to Soldiers' Field to the inspiriting strains of a selection from "Traviata." McTurkle told me what they were afterwards; that's how I know. Around the gridiron we marched once, the band still clinging to "Traviata" and the fellows singing whatever pleased them, generally "Up the Street." Then we had a snake dance, a wonder of a snake dance! The band got lost in the shuffle, but later on we found him standing serene and undismayed under the shadow of the west stand spouting "Auld Lang Syne" till you couldn't see.

Then Bud climbed up on to the edge of the Stadium and we did some more cheering, and when he called for "a regular cheer for the band" the way we hit it up was a caution.

Back in the Square, Bud led us over in front of the "Coop," mainly, I guess, so we would stop the cars for a while. We had some more cheering then, and then Bud leaped up on the steps and announced "Speech by McTurkle!"

Nobody except a few of us knew who McTurkle was, but everyone cheered gloriously. We conducted McTurkle gently but firmly up the steps, and when the crowd got a good look at him they simply went crazy. McTurkle was deeply affected. So was the crowd.

"Speech! speech!" they yelled. "Spe-e-eech!" McTurkle, embarrassed but courageous, his voice faint and tremulous with emotion, spoke.

"Gentlemen," he began.

"Apologize! … Take it back! … Who is he? … It's the band! … 'Ray for the band! … Go on! Say it!"

"Fellows," prompted Bud.

"Fellows," repeated McTurkle.

Deafening applause.

"I wish to thank you for this—ah—this flattering evidence of—shall I say esteem?"

"Don't say it if it hurts you, old man," some one advised.

"What's he talking about?" asked another.

"I appreciate the honor you have done me," continued McTurkle, warming to his work. "And it has been a pleasure, a great pleasure, as well as a privilege, to lead you this evening in your interesting—ah—exercises."

"A-a-a-aye!" yelled the audience.

"There is to be, I understand," said McTurkle, "a game to-morrow, a contest between this college and—ah—Yale."

Laughter and deafening applause.

"While lack of opportunity has kept me from a personal participation in your games and sports, yet I am heartily in sympathy with them. Physical exercise is, I am convinced, of great benefit. In conclusion let me say that I trust that in tomorrow's game of baseball—"