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CHAPTER XIV
THE MASS-MEETING
On the Wednesday for which the mass-meeting was called Jack returned to the house at quarter after five, and, as was his custom, stopped in at Anthony’s room to spend half an hour before dinner. Anthony had improvised a window-seat out of a packing-case, covering it with an old red table-cloth and installing upon it his one cushion, a not over-soft and very flamboyant creation in purple and white. When Jack entered he found Anthony perched thereon before the open casement. The seat was not very long and so the occupant was obliged to either let his legs hang over the edge or fold them up beneath him. At present he had adopted the latter tactics, and a ludicrous figure he presented. Jack subsided on to the edge of the bed and giggled with delight until Anthony tossed the book he was studying at his head.
“What are you crying about?” he demanded.
“I’m not cr – crying,” gurgled Jack. “I’m la – laughing at you.”
“What’s the matter with me?”
“You look so – so funny!”
“Do I?” Anthony grinned and unfolded himself. “I was thinking a while ago that I was like a pair of scissors I saw once. The blades tucked back against the handles. How’d the game come out?”
“Pretty well; seven to nothing. Millport came pretty near getting a run in the fourth, but after that she didn’t have a ghost of a show. I didn’t, either. I didn’t get in for a minute; just sat on that old bench and looked on and nearly froze to death.”
“Too bad,” sympathized Anthony.
“Wasn’t it? However, I don’t care very much. Hanson sat with me a while and we had a long talk. He knows a whole lot about baseball; stuff I never thought of; scientific part of the game, you know.”
“Hanged if I do!” answered Anthony. “I don’t know a baseball from a longstop.”
“A what?” gasped Jack.
“Longstop; isn’t that it?”
“Shortstop, you mean.”
“Well, knew it was some kind of a stop. Might as well call it one thing as the other, I guess.”
“Why don’t you come out and see a game some day?”
“Going to some afternoon, when I’ve nothing to do.”
“Huh! I guess you’ll never come, then. You’re always grinding.”
“Oh, I’ll take a vacation some Saturday and go and watch you play.”
“Don’t know whether you will or not,” said Jack dolefully. “King played in left-field all the game to-day. Pretty nearly every sub except me went in. I wish they’d give me a place to try for and let me see if I can’t make it. I hope, though, they don’t put me out in the field. Perkins told me yesterday that there’s no use in my trying for pitcher this year, and I guess he’s right. Gilberth played a great game to-day; struck seven men out and gave only two bases.”
“How are you and he getting on nowadays?” Anthony asked.
“All right. He never has anything to say to me, and I let him alone.”
“Guess he won’t trouble you any more,” said Anthony.
“Perhaps not. Sometimes, though, I think he’s saving up for something particularly unpleasant. I don’t care, though. He can go hang.”
Anthony closed the window, drew down the stained green shade, and lighted the gas-stove. Jack lay back on the bed for a time and watched the dinner preparations in silence.
“What’s the pièce de résistance to-night?” he finally asked, as there came a sputtering from the pan.
“Hamburger steak with onions,” answered Anthony.
“Ugh!”
“Don’t you like it?” asked his host in surprise.
“Not a bit; and I don’t like the beastly smell, either. So I’m going home.” He stretched his arms luxuriously and sat up. Then, “Did you ever wish you were rich, Anthony?” he asked.
Anthony paused a moment with fork outstretched, and looked thoughtfully across the room. Finally, he shook his head.
“No, I don’t believe I ever did. What’s the use?”
“No use, I suppose. But I have, often. I wish so now. Do you know what I’d do if I had fifty thousand dollars?”
“No; but something silly, I guess,” answered the other, prodding the steak till it sizzled.
“Well, I’d throw that foolish, lying clock out of the window and get your watch back. Then I’d take you to – to – Boston, I guess, and buy you a ripping good dinner for once in your life. We’d have quail and asparagus, and – Do you like chocolate éclairs?”
“Don’t know; never ate any. What are they like?”
“Well, we’d have them, anyway. Wish I had one now. And – But I’m getting hungry, myself.”
“Better stay and have some Hamburger and onions,” advised Anthony, with a smile. But Jack fled toward the door, ostentatiously holding his nose.
At half past seven they set out for the mass-meeting together. When they had crossed the Common and had entered the yard they found themselves in one of a number of little eddies of laughing, chattering fellows that flowed across the campus and merged in front of Grace Hall into a stream that filled the doorway and staircase from side to side.
“Going to have a full house,” observed Anthony.
At the door of the meeting-room they ran into Joe Perkins. He grabbed Anthony and sent him, under charge of Patterson, the manager, to a seat on the platform. Then he put a detaining hand on Jack’s arm.
“Cheer like everything, Weatherby!” he whispered.
Then a six-foot sophomore, leading a flying wedge consisting of a handful of his classmates, bucked Jack between the shoulders and he went rushing up the aisle, tossing the crowd to either side, until he managed to avoid the men behind by slipping into a vacant seat. The big sophomore banged him on the shoulder as he charged on. “Bully interference!” he cried. Followed by his companions, he leaped over the intervening row of occupied seats and subsided in a heap among a little throng of delighted friends. “Down here!” he yelled. Some one imitated a referee’s whistle and a falsetto voice called: “Third down and a yard to gain!”
Jack found himself seated next to a group of second-nine men. The little freshman Clover was his immediate neighbor, and beyond that youth sat Showell, the fellow whom Jack had fooled with his pitching on that first day of outdoor practise. They had met but seldom since then, but Showell had never missed an opportunity to annoy Jack, if possible, or, failing that, to show his dislike. His annoyances usually took the form of allusions to the incident at the river, plain enough, yet so petty that Jack never regarded them as worth noticing. Clover greeted Jack with evident pleasure. The latter returned his greeting and then nodded to the fellows farther along. Only Showell failed to respond. Turning to the man on the other side of him he asked:
“Been down to the river lately?”
“Oh, cut it out,” growled his neighbor, scowling at him.
“Cut what out?” asked Showell, pretending great bewilderment. “The river?”
“Let him alone, can’t you?” whispered the other.
“If you can’t, take your old jokes somewhere else,” advised Clover. Jack had not missed any of it, and for the first time Showell’s pleasantries aroused his anger.
“What’s the matter with you dubs?” Showell asked, grinning. “Can’t I talk about the river? All right, then, I’ll talk about the weather. Nice, dry evening, isn’t it? Any of you fellows get your feet wet?”
Jack touched Clover on the shoulder. “Do you mind changing seats with me?” he asked. Clover looked doubtful a moment; then he got up and Jack slipped along into his place. Showell watched the proceedings with surprise, and when he found Jack beside him turned his gaze uneasily ahead and for the rest of the evening attempted to look unconscious of the other’s presence. But, what with the grins and whispering of his friends, it is doubtful if he enjoyed himself.
The senior president made his little speech and introduced the dean. The latter, who never was much of an orator, said just what everybody knew he would say, and was succeeded by Patterson, the manager. Patterson explained the needs of the Baseball Association, and Professor Nast, chairman of the Athletic Committee, followed and urged the students to come to the support of the team. Neither his remarks nor Patterson’s awakened any enthusiasm, and the cheers which followed were plainly to order. Some one at the rear of the hall started a football song and one by one the audience took up the refrain. Perkins, who had stepped to the front of the platform, paused and glanced inquiringly at the head coach. The latter shook his head and Joe turned away again.
“Let them sing,” whispered Hanson. “It’ll warm them up.”
But as soon as it was discovered that there was no opposition the singing died away. King was on his feet then, calling for cheers for Captain Perkins. They were given loudly enough, but lacked spontaneity. Joe’s speech was short, but had the right ring, and several allusions to past successes of the nine and future victories awakened applause. But when he had taken his seat again and the cheering, in spite of the efforts of King and Bissell and others of the team, had ceased, it was evident that the meeting was bound to be a flat failure unless something was done to wake it up.
Hanson, who was down as the next speaker, called Joe to him, and for a minute they whispered together. Then Joe crossed the stage and spoke to Anthony. At the back of the room there was a perceptible impatience; several fellows had already tiptoed out, and there was much scraping of feet. Joe heard it and held up his hand. Then Anthony lifted himself up out of the ridiculously small chair in which he had been seated and moved awkwardly to the front of the platform. Instantly there was the sound of clapping, succeeded by the cry of “A – a – ay, Tidball!” Anthony settled his spectacles on his nose and thrust his big hands into his trouser’s pockets.
“Good old Tidball!” cried some one; the remark summoned laughter and clapping; men on their feet and edging toward the door paused and turned back; those who had kept their seats settled themselves more comfortably and looked expectant. The senior class president jumped to his feet and called for a cheer, and the response was encouragingly hearty. Joe threw a satisfied glance at Hanson and the latter nodded. The tumult died down and Anthony, who had been facing the gathering with calm and serious countenance, began to speak.
CHAPTER XV
ANTHONY ON BASEBALL
“Well,” commenced Anthony, in his even, deliberate drawl, “you had your chance to get out, and didn’t take it. I guess you’re in for it. I’ve been requested to speak to you about baseball. I told Captain Perkins that I didn’t know a baseball from a frozen turnip, but he said that made it all the better; that if I didn’t know what I was talking about you would realize that I was absolutely unprejudiced and my words would carry more weight. I said, ‘How are you going to get the fellows to listen to me?’ He said, ‘We’ll lock the doors.’ I guess they’re locked.”
Half his audience turned to look, and the rest laughed.
“Anyhow,” Anthony continued, “he kept his part of the agreement, and so I’ll have to keep mine. I’ve said frankly that I know nothing about baseball, and I hope that you will all pardon any mistakes I may make in discussing the subject. I never saw but one game, and after it was over I knew less about it than I did before. A fellow I knew played – well, I don’t know just what he did play; most of the time he danced around a bag of salt or something that some one had left out on the grass. There were three of those bags, and his was the one on the southeast corner. When the game was over he asked me how I liked it. I said, ‘It looks to me like a good game for a lunatic asylum.’ He said I showed ignorance; that it was the best game in the world, and just full up and slopping over with science. I didn’t argue with him. But I’ve always thought that if I had to play baseball I’d choose to be the fellow that wears a black alpaca coat and does the talking. Seems to me he’s the only one that remains sane. I asked my friend if he was the keeper; he said no, he was the umpire.”
By this time the laughter was almost continuous, but Anthony’s expression of calm gravity remained unbroken. At times he appeared surprised and disturbed by the bursts of laughter; and a small freshman in the front row toppled out of his seat and had to be thumped on the back. Even the dean was chuckling.
“Well, science has always been a weak point with me, and I guess that’s why I’m not able to understand the science of hitting a ball with a wagon-spoke and running over salt-bags. But I’m not so narrow-minded as to affirm that because I can’t see the science it isn’t there. You’ve all heard about Abraham Lincoln and the book-agent, I guess. The book-agent wanted him to write a testimonial for his book. Lincoln wrote it. It ran something like this: ‘Any person who likes this kind of a book will find this just the kind of a book he likes.’ Well, that’s about my idea of baseball; anybody who likes that kind of a game will find baseball just the kind of a game he likes.
“Now, they tell me that down at Robinson they’ve found an old wagon-wheel, cut the fingers off a pair of kid gloves, bought a wire bird-cage, and started a baseball club. All right. Let ’em. There are other wheels and more gloves and another bird-cage, I guess. Captain Perkins says he has a club, too. I’ve never seen it, but I don’t doubt his word; any man with Titian hair tells the truth. He says he keeps it out at the field. From what I’ve seen of baseball clubs I think that’s a good, safe place. I hope, however, that he locks the gates when he leaves ’em. But Captain Perkins tells me that he has the finest kind of a baseball club that ever gibbered, and he offers to bet me a suspender buckle against a pants button that his club can knock the spots off of any other club, and especially the Robinson club. I’m not a betting man, and so I let him boast.
“And after he’d boasted until he’d tired himself out he went on to say that baseball clubs were like any other aggregation of mortals; that they have to be clothed and fed, and, moreover, when they go away to mingle with other clubs they have to have their railway fare paid. Captain Perkins, as I’ve said once already, is a truthful man, and so I don’t see but that we’ve got to believe him. He says that his club hasn’t any money; that if it doesn’t get some money it will grow pale and thin and emaciated, and won’t be able to run around the salt-bags as violently as the Robinson club; in which case the keeper – I mean the umpire – will give the game to Robinson. Well, now, what’s to be done? Are we to stand idly by with our hands in our pockets and see Robinson walk off with a game that is really our property? Or are we to take our hands out of our pockets, with the fingers closed, and jingle some coins into the collection-box?
“I’m not a baseball enthusiast, as I’ve acknowledged, but I am an Erskine enthusiast, fellows. Perkins says we ought to beat Robinson at baseball. I say let’s do it! I say let’s beat Robinson at everything. If anybody will start a parchesi club I’ll go along and stand by and yell while they down the Robinson parchesi club. That’s what Providence made Robinson for – to be beaten. Providence looked over the situation and said: ‘There’s Erskine, with nothing to beat.’ Then Providence made Robinson. And we started in and beat her. And we’ve been beating her ever since – when she hasn’t beaten us.
“I’ve done a whole lot of talking here this evening, and I guess you’re all tired of it.” (There was loud and continued dissent at this point, interspersed with cries of “Good old Tidball!”) “But I promised to talk, and I like to give good measure. But the time for talking is about up. Mr. Hanson has something to say to you, and as he knows what he’s going to talk about, whereas I don’t know what I’m talking about, I guess I’d better stop and give him a show. But before I stop I want to point out a self-evident fact, fellows. You can’t win from Robinson without a baseball team, and you can’t have a baseball team unless you dig down in your pockets and pay up. Manager Patterson says the Baseball Association needs the sum of six hundred dollars. Well, let’s give it to ’em. Any fellow here to-night who thinks a victory over Robinson isn’t worth six hundred dollars is invited to stand up and walk out; we’ll unlock the door for him. Six hundred dollars means only about one dollar for each fellow. I am requested to state that after Mr. Hanson has spoken his piece a few of the best-looking men among us will pass through the audience with small cards upon which every man is asked to write his name and the amount he is willing to contribute to secure a victory over Robinson that will make last year’s score look like an infinitesimal fraction. If some one will go through the motions, I’d like to propose three long Erskines, three times three and three long Erskines for the nine.”
Anthony bowed and sat down. The senior class president sprang to his feet, and the next moment the hall was thunderous with the mighty cheers that followed his “One, two, three!” Then came calls of “Tidball! Tidball!” and again the slogan was taken up. It was fully five minutes ere the head coach arose. And when he in turn stood at the platform’s edge the cheers began once more, for enthusiasm reigned at last.
Hanson realized that further speechmaking was idle and confined his remarks to an indorsement of what Anthony had said. The distribution of blank slips of paper had already begun and his audience paid but little attention to his words, although it applauded good-naturedly. When he had ended, promising on behalf of the team, and in return for the support of the college, the best efforts of players and coaches, confusion reigned supreme. Pencils and fountain pens were passed hither and thither, jokes were bandied, songs were sung, and the tumult increased with the pushing aside of chairs and the scraping of feet as the meeting began to break up. But, though some left as soon as they had filled out their pledges, the greater number flocked into noisy groups and awaited the announcement of the result.
At length, Professor Nast accepted the slip of paper handed him by Patterson and advanced to the edge of the platform. There, he raised a hand for attention, and at the same time glanced at the figures. An expression of incredulity overspread his face, and he turned an inquiring look upon the manager. The latter smiled and nodded, as though to dispel the professor’s doubts. The hubbub died away, and the professor faced the meeting again.
“I am asked,” he said, “to announce the result of the – ah – subscription. Where every one has responded so promptly and so heartily to the appeal in behalf of the association, it would be, perhaps, unfair to give the names of any who have been exceptionally generous. But without doing so it remains a pleasant – ah – privilege to state that among the subscriptions there is one of fifty dollars – ”
Loud applause greeted this announcement, and fellows of notoriously empty pocket-books were accused by their friends of being the unnamed benefactor, and invariably acknowledged the impeachment with profuse expressions of modesty.
“Three of twenty-five dollars,” continued the professor, “six of ten dollars, seventeen of five dollars, and many of two dollars and over. The total subscription, strange as it may seem, reaches the sum of five hundred and ninety-nine dollars, one dollar less than the amount asked for!”
There was a moment of silent surprise. Then, from somewhere at the left of the room, a voice cried: “Here you are, then!” and something went spinning through the air. The head coach leaped forward, caught it deftly, and held it aloft. It was a shining silver dollar.
“Thank you,” he said.
The incident tickled the throng, and cheers and laughter struggled for supremacy. Jack pushed his way to the door, and remained there waiting for Anthony, one hand groping lonesomely in a trouser pocket where a minute or two before had snuggled his last coin.
CHAPTER XVI
JACK COURTS THE MUSE
April passed into May, and uncertain skies gave way to placid expanses of blue, whereon soft fluffs of white moved slowly, blown by warm and gentle winds. Down at the boat-house, bare-legged and bare-headed, men filed across the floats, bearing the slender, glinting shells, or, with hands on oars, bent and unbent in unison to the sharp commands of important and diminutive coxswains; on the newly rolled cinder-track other men sped or jogged, heads well back and knees high, with white trunks fluttering in the breeze; in front of the stand the jumpers and pole-vaulters plumped themselves into the freshly spaded loam; on the diamond, brilliantly green in its carpet of carefully tended turf, the players darted hither and thither amid the crack of batted ball and the cries of coaches.
By the beginning of the second week in May, baseball affairs had assumed a more encouraging look. The training-table had taken on six more men – among them Showell and Clover – and the unsuccessful candidates had gone to the freshmen team or found other branches of athletics to interest them. Erskine had played eight games, had won six, tied one, and lost one. What was practically a preliminary season was well-nigh over and with the middle of the month the serious contests would begin.
Meanwhile, Jack had found himself. After a vicarious existence as a general outfield substitute, he had settled down as substitute second-baseman, a position which he had never attempted hitherto, but one which he took to in a way that vindicated his right to it. He showed that he possessed the three essentials of a good second-baseman: coolness, quickness, and judgment. With the exception of third base, second is the most difficult of the infield positions; it has been called the “keystone of the infield,” and that very aptly. So far as handling the ball is concerned – that is, catching, stopping, or throwing – second-baseman has no harder work than shortstop or third-baseman; it is in studying the batsman that he encounters his difficulties.
Jack started in with a good knowledge of the fundamentals of baseball and took kindly to coaching. Gradually he acquired the intuitive sense which enabled him to tell where the ball was going before it had left the bat, and to govern himself accordingly. He learned that a nine’s success depends upon team-work and not upon individual brilliancy, and to control his zeal; to anticipate the shortstop’s movements and to know, without looking, where that player and the third-baseman were; to keep always in mind that the best policy is to put out the runner nearest home; and much more besides.
With a definite position to try for, Jack found it much easier to put every effort into playing. Even the fact that “Wally” Stiles, the first choice for second-baseman, would in all likelihood play out the big games, those with Harvard, Artmouth, and Robinson, did not trouble him. There would be other games which, if less important, were well worth winning, and in those he would probably take part.
So Jack put his whole mind into learning his position, studying its possibilities, developing an eighth sense, which enabled him time and again to judge almost with exactitude in what direction, and how far, the ball, scarcely away from the bat, was going, and learning, too, to “size up” a batsman’s prowess from the way he stood and looked and swung his stick. I have said that he possessed a good knowledge of the fundamentals of the game when he started in; but there were still things to learn which his baseball education had not taught, such little niceties as stopping grounders with his feet together so that, in case of a miss, the ball could not go between his legs, and, after catching or stopping a ball, to start at once toward the point whither the ball was to be thrown instead of standing still, so that by the time he had gathered himself for the throw the distance for the ball to travel had been lessened; little things these, but of the sort that win or lose a game.
One thing that had a deal to do with Jack’s ability to put his heart into his work on the diamond was the attitude of the other players toward him. Had the old scarcely concealed contempt and dislike been manifested he could never have shown up as varsity material. But that was past. In the minds of most of the fellows time had dimmed the memory of the incident at the river, now nearly three months ago, and Jack’s attitude and behavior of late had aided.
For a while the neutrality observed by Gilberth made him suspicious that the pitcher was only husbanding his powers of annoyance in order to indulge in some more than usually brutal expression of contempt. But, as time went by, Jack was forced to conclude that hostilities from that source were over. At length, the neutrality was succeeded by a show of friendliness. It was impossible to practise together day after day without an occasional word or two, and Jack and Tracy soon found themselves in the habit of greeting each other when they met, very ceremoniously, to be sure, and of sometimes exchanging observations on the bench much after the manner of slight acquaintances who find themselves thrown together at a party. Jack was very glad. The old thirst for vengeance on his enemies had wasted perceptibly under the influence of congenial companionship, and he was ready to cry quits. Just what Tracy’s sentiments were at this time it is hard to say; it is doubtful if he knew himself.
He had made up his mind to let Jack alone, and was doing it. Only one thing troubled him, and that was the fear that Anthony Tidball might think that his course was the result of the other’s threats. And it is only fair to state on behalf of Tracy’s physical courage that such was not the case. Joe Perkins’s remonstrances had borne weight, and when, shortly after Anthony’s visit, Professor White had added his request, Tracy had decided that, after all, he had possibly mistaken the sentiment of the college. Professor White had said to him very much the same things that Joe had said, but he had put them more convincingly. He knew Tracy, and did not make the mistake of ruffling his temper; on the contrary, when he had left, Tracy felt that there was one person at Erskine who understood him. And for the sake of that person and of Joe he would do as they asked him.
Professor White’s efforts in Jack’s behalf were not limited to the talk with Tracy. He saw Joe Perkins and Hanson and King and several others with whom Jack came in daily contact and asked for the boy fair treatment. And he encouraged Jack to visit him and, when the latter did so, used every effort to hearten him. On the whole, it is safe to say that to the professor belonged a greater part of the credit for the betterment of the boy’s condition. Such was the state of affairs when, on a certain Saturday evening, about the middle of the month, Jack and Anthony sat talking on the edge of Mrs. Dorlon’s porch.
Anthony had washed up his supper dishes and Jack had just strolled back from dinner at the training-table. The moon, well into its first quarter, was sailing in a clear sky over the tops of the elms in the yard. The evening was musical with the hum and whirr of early insects and the varied sounds from open windows. Somewhere farther up the curve of Elm Street an uncertain hand was coaxing the strains of Mandalay from a guitar, and now and then the faint music of a piano floated across from Walton Hall. Anthony had lighted his pipe and, with its bowl aglow in the dusk, was leaning against a pillar, one knee tucked up under his chin. Jack sat a yard away, his hands in his pockets, staring up at the moon.
“Did you ever write poetry, Anthony?” he asked suddenly.
“No.” Anthony sucked reflectively at the pipe and shook his head slowly. “No, I’ve had the measles and whooping-cough and scarlatina, but I’ve never had poetry yet. Of course, I’ve tried my hand at blank verse in Latin, but it wasn’t poetry; even the instructor acknowledged that.”
“Oh, I meant just plain every-day poetry, you know,” Jack explained. “I thought if you had you could tell me something about it.”
“Well, I didn’t say that I didn’t know poetry when I saw it,” answered Anthony. “I’ve read a good deal of it, you see. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know whether you have to have all your lines rhyme.”
“Depends, I guess. What are you going to do, anyway, turn into a poet?”
“No, only I thought I’d try my hand at writing some verses for the fellows to sing at the games, you know. The Purple says we ought to have some new songs for the Robinson game.”
“Oh. Well, now, from what I’ve seen of such things it doesn’t matter any whether lines rhyme or don’t rhyme, I should say. As long as the words fit the music the rhymes just hump along as best they can. Have you written anything yet?”
“N – no, not exactly,” answered Jack cautiously. “I’ve got an idea, but I didn’t quite know about rhyming. Of course, all the poetry you read rhymes all through, like Tennyson, or else it doesn’t rhyme at all, like Milton. What I was wondering was whether it was all right to just rhyme now and then, you know, when you could, and not bother about it when you – you can’t. What do you think?”
“Oh, I’d just do the best I could and not worry,” answered the other gravely. “The – hum – sentiment seems to be the most important thing about college songs.”
“Yes, I suppose so. It’s funny how few rhymes there are when you come to look for them,” said Jack thoughtfully. “Now there’s ‘purple’; I can’t find anything to rhyme with that.”
“Purple? Now that does sound difficult. Let’s see; I guess ‘turtle’ wouldn’t do, eh?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve tried everything. I thought maybe it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t rhyme.”
“Don’t believe it will. Let’s hear what you got.”
“Oh, it isn’t anything much,” answered Jack modestly. “It – it goes to the tune of ‘Hail, Columbia!’ you know.”
“All right; sing it if you’d rather.”
“I can’t sing; I’ll just say it. It – it begins like this:
Hail to Erskine, conq’ring band!
Firm together we will stand!
While the battle rages high
We will fight until the last!
Underneath the purple banner we
Will live or die for victory!
What – what do you think of it?”
