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It was the old war song of the organization, product of a quarter-century of rip-roaring defiance, crystallized from the lyrics of the hard-fisted. They let the bass drums accent for them. "Here wec-come from old Sy-myrna Here wec-come with Hecly One; She's the prunes for a squirt, gol durn her We've come down for fight or fun. Shang, de-rango! We're the bo-kay, Don't giveadam for no one no way.
I've got sort of a dim idea why you invited the Hecly fire department; and perhaps you know what we're goin' to do with all that dunnage on them trucks. But what in the devil you're goin' to do with that cust-fired old elephant and she advertisin' this thing to the four corners of God's creation well, it's got my top-riggin' snarled."
I see 'em this mornin' when they unloaded Hecly One and the trimmin's 'foresaid, and I'd advise you to wait a spell before you go to callin' this muster names." It became apparent a little later that hints of this sort were having their effect on the multitude.
"Here wec-come sing old A'nt Rhody! See old Hecly paw up dirt. Stuff her pod with rocks and sody, Jee-ro C'ris'mus, how she'll squirt! Rip-te-hoo! And a hip, hip, holler, We'll lick hell for a half a dollar!" The post-office windows rattled and shivered in the sunshine. Horses along the line of march crouched, ducked sideways, and snorted in panic.
"Say that, and say it loud, or we'll give old Hecly the wickin' and blow you out of that tree." And after ineffectual oaths the Colonel said it said it twice, and the second time much the louder. "Then," bellowed the triumphant Hiram, "the record of old Hecly Number One still stands, and the championship banner travels back to Smyrna with us to-night, jest as it travelled down this mornin'."
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