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"A couple of thousand years ago, wasn't it?" Vic asked, smiling down on her. "If I don't play Sunrise needn't fail, even for Friday, the thirteenth." "But it will fail without you. You pulled us to victory a year ago at the Thanksgiving game, and last fall the Sunrise goal line wasn't crossed the whole season with 'Burleigh! Burly! Burlee! for a slogan. We must win this year.
Burlee!" shrieked the yell-leader as Vic leaped over the goal line and the rooters roared: The Sunrise hope! And that's the dope! Never quails! Never fails! Burleigh! Burly! Burlee! A difficult kick from a sharp angle sent the ball through the air one inch wide of the goal post, and the bleachers counted five.
Then down by the river Dennie's soprano streamed out, The sun is sot, The coffee's hot, The supper's got. What? Yes! Got! Answering this call from the north end of the Corral, a heavy base growled, Dennie is sad, The eggs are bad; The Professor's mad At a College lad. Burleigh! Burly! Burlee! Come home! Come home! Come home! "The Kickapoos are on the warpath.
"What's the matter?" "When will the freight be in?" "Merry Christmas!" So the crowd shouted. The songs were worn out, the yell-leaders were exhausted, and the rooters were hoarse. "Where's Vic Burleigh?" somebody called, and a chorus followed: "Burleigh! Burly! Burlee! Come home! Come home! Come home!" But Burleigh did not come.
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