who
distinguished himself this afternoon by taking no less than seven of
the old boys' wickets."

Great applause greeted the finish of the president's speech, and
Preston's health was drunk amid a scene of the wildest enthusiasm.
Cries of "On your pins, Preston!"--"Well bowled,
sir!"--"Order!"--"Speak up!" etc., rent the air; while the pounding of
fists and drumming of feet were continued until a game leg of one of
the forms suddenly gave way, causing a temporary disappearance of half
the company beneath the table.

Preston might have been able to howl, but he certainly could not talk,
and it was hard for him to follow such a glib speaker as the president.
However, the fact remained that he had distinguished himself, and
brought honour to the Fifth Form in general by taking seven wickets;
and for this reason his comrades would have been content had he merely
stood up and reeled off the list of prepositions which govern the
accusative, or quoted selections from the multiplication table. As it
was, they awarded him a cordial reception, and filled up the pauses in
his disjointed utterances with tumultuous applause.

"I'm much obliged to you fellows for drinking my health," began the
bowler. "It's jolly good of you, and--all that sort of thing.
(Cheers.) I did manage to bag seven wickets." (Renewed applause,
interrupted by a warning shout of "Look out! this form's going again!")
"I was going to say," continued the speaker, attempting to hide his
embarrassment by pretending to drink out of an empty glass, "that it
was rather a fluke--" (Shouts of "No! no!" "More pop for the
gentleman!" and fresh outbursts of cheering.) "Well, I did the best I
could, and--well--glad you're pleased, and all that sort of thing.
(Alarums and excursions.) I suppose I ought to say something about
this society, but, as regards that matter, the former speaker has
rather taken the sails out of my wind. (Cheers and laughter.) No, I
should say the _whales_ out of my-- (Yells of laughter.) Any way,"
concluded Preston, shouting to be heard above the general uproar, "I'm
much obliged to you, and--all that sort of thing--"

It was not until several ginger-beer bottles had rolled off the table,
and the rickety form had once more gone down with every soul on board,
that a sufficient amount of order was restored to enable the president
to call on somebody for a song.

"Sing yourself, Tinkleby," was the answer. "Give us 'Little Brown
Jug.'"