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AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE
SPIRES AND GARGOYLES
THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS
NARCISSUS OFF DUTY
THE DEBUTANTE
EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE
YOUNG IRONY
THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE
THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE

 

"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 

competition, stepped into a vacancy of the cast as Boiling Oil, a Pirate 

Lieutenant. Every night for the last week they had rehearsed "Ha-Ha 

Hortense!" in the Casino, from two in the afternoon until eight in the 

morning, sustained by dark and powerful coffee, and sleeping in 

lectures through the interim. A rare scene, the Casino. A big, barnlike 

auditorium, dotted with boys as girls, boys as pirates, boys as babies; 

the scenery in course of being violently set up; the spotlight man 

rehearsing by throwing weird shafts into angry eyes; over all the 

constant tuning of the orchestra or the cheerful tumpty-tump of a 

Triangle tune. The boy who writes the lyrics stands in the corner, 

biting a pencil, with twenty minutes to think of an encore; the business 

manager argues with the secretary as to how much money can be spent 

on "those damn milkmaid costumes"; the old graduate, president in 

ninety-eight, perches on a box and thinks how much simpler it was in his 

day. 


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