The Cub Reporter and
They marched over very much the route that class reunions take in June, only, instead of singing, "Nassau, Nassau, sing out the chorus free," they sang, "Cubaw, Cubaw, sing out for Cuba Libre;" and instead of cheering for class numerals, they shouted, "What's the matter with Alfonso? He's all right—nit," and other "anti-Spanish sentiments."
The townspeople, the same old patient townspeople, came to the doors and windows and looked on with the same expressions they have been wearing, from generation to generation, ever since Washington led his victorious men into old North.
Knox, dressed in a 'Varsity sweater and somebody's stolen duck trousers, was, of course, in the lead. His head was thrown back, and he was having a serene, contented time, oblivious of the Morgue and everything urban, until suddenly, on the way back to the campus, the office of the Western Union Telegraph Company came within his horizon. Then he remembered the despatch in his pocket. Don't you see he was never meant for a newspaper man?
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