"HA-HA HORTENSE!"

"All right, ponies!"

"Shake it up!"

"Hey, ponies--how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a mean
hip?"

"Hey, _ponies!_"

The coach fumed helplessly, the Triangle Club president, glowering
with anxiety, varied between furious bursts of authority and fits of
temperamental lassitude, when he sat spiritless and wondered how the
devil the show was ever going on tour by Christmas.

"All right. We'll take the pirate song."

The ponies took last drags at their cigarettes and slumped into place;
the leading lady rushed into the foreground, setting his hands and feet
in an atmospheric mince; and as the coach clapped and stamped and tumped
and da-da'd, they hashed out a dance.

A great, seething ant-hill was the Triangle Club. It gave a musical
comedy every year, travelling with cast, chorus, orchestra, and scenery
all through Christmas vacation. The play and music were the work
of undergraduates, and the club itself was the most influential of
institutions, over three hundred men competing for it every year.

Amory, after an easy victory in the first sophomore Princetonian