“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!”

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.”

“Yes, yes!  But what is play but practice for reality?  And how shall love be learned in savage war-dances?”

They tell us that we have a new generation of young people since the war; a generation which thinks for itself, and has its own way.  I was an advocate of this idea in the abstract, but I must admit that I was startled by the concrete case which I now encountered.  Bertie suddenly looked round from his place in the driver’s seat.  “Say,” he demanded, in a grating voice, “where was that guy raised?”

“Bertie dear!” cried his mother.  “Don’t be rude!”

“I’m not being rude,” replied the other.  “I just want to know where he got his nut ideas.”