1 American school boy

"All together! Cheer on cheer!

Now we're charging down the field!

See how Broadwood pales with fear, Knowing we will never yield!

Wave on high your banner blue, Cheer for comrades staunch and true;

We are here to do or die, Fighting for old Yardley!"

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 sang the tenor and Dan Vinton did whatever was most convenient, since 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 about 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."

"I'll try and think of another verse," said Dan. "But I don't think I'll work in anything about dents and splints, Alf. Besides, that doesn't sound very well coming from the captain. Remember that you're a gentleman."

"He knows better than that; don't you?" said Tom.

"I know I'll roll you around in the dust if you don't shut up, you old Pudding Head!" answered Alf truculently.

"Come on, you fellows," interrupted Dan. "We haven't any time for scrapping if we're going to get there to see the start."

"How far do they run?" asked Tom.

"About three miles," replied Dan, as he climbed the fence and jumped down into the road. "They start at the corner beyond the bridge, take the Broadwood road and circle back beyond Greenburg and finish at the bridge again."

"Is that the route when they run against Broadwood?" Alf inquired as they went on toward the Wissining station.

"Yes, only then they'll start at the Cider Mill and finish a mile beyond toward Broadwood, and that makes it a mile longer."

"Suppose little Geraldine will have any show?"

"I don't know, Alf. He's been at it ever since school began, though. He asked me if I thought he could make a cross-country runner and I told him to go ahead and try. I knew it wouldn't do him a bit of harm, anyway, and he was sort of sore because Bendix wouldn't pass him for football."

"Bendix was right, too," said Tom. "Gerald's too young and weak to tackle football."

"He's fifteen," objected Alf, "and, as for being weak, well, I know he handed me some nasty jabs in the gym last week when we boxed. They didn't feel weak."

"His father didn't want him to play this fall," said Dan, "and I'm glad he's not going to. If he got hurt, Mr. Pennimore would sort of hold me to blame, I guess."

"Glad I'm not responsible for that kid," laughed Alf. "You'll have your hands full by next year, Dan."

"Oh, he will be able to look after himself pretty soon, I fancy. They haven't started yet; let's get a move on."

They hurried their pace past the station and across the bridge which spans the river just beyond and connects Wissining with Greenburg. Anyone meeting them would, I think, have given them more than a second glance, for one doesn't often encounter three finer examples of the American schoolboy.