"Is there a band?" West threw up his hands in mock despair.

"Is there a _band? Is_ there a band! Mr. March, your ignorance surprises
and pains me. It is quite evident that you have never heard the Hillton
Academy Band; no one who has ever heard it forgets. Yes, my boy, there
_is_ a band, and it plays Washington Post, and Hail Columbia, and
Hilltonians; and then it plays them all over again."

"But I thought Mr. Remsen was not coming until Saturday?"

"That," replied West, confidentially, "was his intention, but he heard
of a youngster up here who is such an astonishingly fine punter that he
decided to come at once and see for himself; and so he telegraphed to
Blair this morning. And you and I, my lad, will March--see?--with the
procession, and sing--"

"'Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling
Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing!
Hilltonians! Hilltonians! we stand to do or die,
Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!'"

And, seizing Joel by the arm, West dragged him out of the corridor and
down the steps into the warm sunlight of a September noon, chanting the
school song at the top of his voice. A group of boys on the Green
shouted lustily back, and the occupant of a neighboring window threw a
cushion with unerring precision at West's head. Stopping to deposit this
safely amid the branches halfway up an elm tree, the two youths sped
across the yard toward Warren Hall and the dinner table.