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I got halfway over to the field and found I had forgotten my ticket, and had to go back to the room for it. McTurkle's door was ajar and through it came those awful sounds. I kicked it open and stuck my head in. "Hello," I said. "Do you know what time it is? You'll be late." McTurkle took the French horn from his face and wiped the mouthpiece gently with a silk handkerchief. "Late?" he asked.
But, say, honest now, it wasn't McTurkle's fault, was it? "Curly" sat with head in hands, elbows on desk, and eyes fixed unseeingly on the half-opened door. The afternoon sunlight made golden shafts across the rows of empty seats. The windows were open, and with the sunlight came the songs of birds, the incessant hum of insects, and occasionally a quick, rattling cheer.
Over in front of the university they had cheered every one and everything, and now they were forming again into line of march. "On to Soldier's Field!" they cried. We hurried across to the head of the procession, McTurkle's long legs making us work hard to keep up with him. Arrived, Bud waved an arm for silence. "Fellows!" he shouted. "Fellows!"
Apparently McTurkle's manner of listening was to hold his mouth open. He held it open now, wide open. Also his eyes. At last he said: "But but I'm afraid I don't know any of the ah the college airs." "What of that! It is your leadership we want; that and the inspiring strains of your dulcet horn. Play what you will, McTurkle, only play. Remember that the success of the team may depend upon you!
Now, I've heard since then that the French horn has a compass of only four octaves and is principally useful as an orchestral adjunct; that, in short, its ability is limited and its use as a solo instrument slight. All I can say is that the person who said that doesn't know a French horn; anyway, he doesn't know McTurkle's French horn. Four octaves be blowed!
The table was piled high with all sorts of books, and you could just hear McTurkle's wheels go round. When we walked in he slipped the glasses from his nose by wriggling his eyebrows and turned around and looked at us blinking. McTurkle was a funny genius. He was forever grinding. When he wasn't grinding he was causing strange, painful sounds to emanate from his room.
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