white flannel trousers, came swinging in the lower gate of the Stadium at the head of fifteen hundred Tatians singing "Tate Forever More." The practice ceased for a while as the band wheeled around the field and its followers scrambled up to seats in the stands. The leader, straight and chesty, twirled his shiny baton and it flashed in the sun. He gave a signal. The band executed a neat maneuver and formed a giant "T." The students in the stands cheered. Then the band, too, sought seats in the grandstand. White-flanneled cheer leaders leaped in front of the first row of Tatians, flashed their megaphones, waved their arms and fifteen hundred throats burst into:
Whee-e-e-e, wham;
Chop suey, chop suey;
Tate! Tate! Ta-a-ate!!
Harold might have been reminded of the first time he had listened to that yell, from his own lips in front of the mirror in his Sanford bedroom. And it is a certainty that he would not now have wished to change places with the leaping cheer leaders. But, truth to tell, Harold did not even hear the Tate battle cry. He was concentrating so intensely upon directing the scrub eleven faultlessly through
