Michael

Michael clapped his hands together.
“Oh—that kind of alliance!” he exclaimed. Michael was grinning from ear to ear. The sheer good humor of the expression, for all the ferocity lurking in it, was like pure sunshine.
“Sure, Alexander Mackay. We accept.”

Less than a minute later, Michael was out on the street, where dozens of his coal miners were chatting amiably with the Scots cavalrymen. Mackay was at his side. A large crowd was gathered about, most of them students from the high school who had followed them into town.
Rebecca, watching through the window, saw Michael’s lips moving. She could not hear the words, but knew he was addressing the coal miners. An instant later, the crowd on the street dissolved into an orgy of celebration and back slapping. Julie Sims and her cheer­leading squad again started that bizarre little dance. And, again, the students responded with a roaring chant.
Two—four—six—eight!
Who do we appreciate?
Scotsmen! Scotsmen!
The chant was loud enough to be heard through the window. More than loud enough. Rebecca thought the chant was bizarre, although she could not deny its raucous charm.
Then the cheerleaders began leading the crowd in a different chant and she was completely mystified.
Frowning, she turned to James Nichols. The doctor was on his feet, staring out the window, clapping his hands in time to the chant and muttering the same peculiar, meaningless words under his breath.
“Please,” she asked, “explain this to me. What does that mean, exactly?” Her lips formed around unfamiliar words. “On Wisconsin! On Wisconsin!”
The doctor grinned. “What it means, young lady, is that a bunch