n ought to be gentle--if his mother had been alive--but then he was glad she wasn't. With that a sob shook him--startled him. Angrily he stood up and glared about the place. This wouldn't do; he must pull himself together. He walked up and down the little living room, bright with boys' belongings, with fraternity shields and flags and fencing foils and paddles and pictures; he walked up and down and he whistled "Dunderbeck," which somehow was in his head. Then he was singing it:
"Oh Dunderbeck, Oh Dunderbeck, how could you be so mean As even to have thought of such a terrible machine! For bob-tailed rats and pussy-cats shall never more be seen; They'll all be ground to sausage-meat in Dunderbeck's machine."
There are times when Camembert cheese is a steadying thing to think of--or golf balls. "Dunderbeck" answered for John McLean. It appeared difficult to sing, however--he harked back to whistling. Then the clear piping broke suddenly. He bit his lower lip and went and sat down before the desk a