who had come to see the
celebration, and myriads of small boys who had come to see the fun.

It was a beautiful sight. The wood had been piled up in pyramid form,
and the flames rose red and yellow almost to the tops of the tall elms,
those still sentries of the campus. How it spluttered and hissed and
crashed and roared! and not even the Freshmen could drown the mighty
voice, which spoke in so many different tongues, though they did their
best; and as Braddy's brother, standing near the wagon which held the
nine, watched the shooting, dancing, devouring flames his heart thumped
so that it almost broke out of bounds, and he drew long, very long
breaths.

The fire had died down somewhat, the cheering was more spasmodic and
subdued, the time for speeches had come. Every one crowded closer, and
the wagon, not the burning pile, became the centre of attention.

"Speech! speech!" cried '98. "A speech, Braddy."

Bradfield was not only the pitcher, but the Captain of the Freshman
nine. So they forced him upon the high seat, and yelled for quiet.
Braddy looked down upon the densely packed mass, hushed for the moment
into something like stillness, and his nerve completely deserted him.
There he stood, fair and boyish, a target for all eyes, but he could not
say a word. He opened his mouth, he even gestured, but no sound came. It
was a case of pure stage-fright, and the awkwardness increased with
every second. "Fellows," he managed to stammer out--"fellows--"

But there he stopped. Suddenly the painful pause was broken by a high
excited voice. "Tell 'em Princeton's the biggest college in the world,
Tom, and that '98 can beat any Freshman nine in the country!"

It broke the spell. Long and loud were the cheers that followed this
outburst, and "Braddy's brother," covered with confusion, was hoisted by
a dozen hands into the wagon beside the nine. By the time that quiet had
once more been restored Tom Bradfield had recovered his "nerve," and his
speech on that memorable occasion will go down to posterity as one of
the best on record. All the speeches were good, _splendid_, Bingo
thought, for he heard, and understood, and thrilled with every word.
When the final sentence had been delivered, and '98 had once more
dragged the nine in triumph round the now visible cannon, and cheered
them hoarsely for the last time, and when the crowd had begun to
disperse, leaving the smouldering embers, and shouting and singing as
they went, Brad