point of frenzy. "Three cheers, and the biggest tiger that ever wore stripes, fellows!"
Oh, what a shout there was! Every student was on his feet in an instant, yelling at the top of his voice. Even some of the faculty joined in, and Dr. Emerson Tines was observed to be wildly Waving his hands. How the cheers rang out! And then the tiger!
Dr. Churchill blew his nose violently, and wiped his glasses several times, for there was a mist of tears on them. He tried to speak—to go on—but he was too affected.
Slowly he turned, and walked back to his seat amid the faculty. And then Bean Perkins did what forever covered him with glory, wherever, in after years, the stories of Randall College were told.
Jumping up on one of the pews, he raised his hand for silence. Then, in a voice that was singularly sweet and clear, he started that school song: "Aut Vincere, Aut Mori!"
Welled out the strains from hundreds of throats—the song of songs—the song that was always sung in times of victory, or when the teams on diamond or gridiron seemed to be putting up a losing fight—the song that had snatched many a victory from defeat.
Forth it rolled, deep-voiced and solemn, sung in the original Latin, in which it had been com-
