The president complied with the request. Mead, a musical companion,
ground out an unearthly accompaniment on "Duster's" little,
broken-winded harmonium; and the company shrieked the chorus,
regardless of time, tune, or anything but the earnest desire of each
individual to make more noise than any one else.

When this deafening uproar had at length subsided, everybody was forced
to remain quiet for a few moments to regain their breath. "Now, then,"
said Tinkleby, "who's next? What's that? All right. Bos. Jones says
he will give us a recitation."

The announcement was received with a groan. Mr. Boswell-Jones was
rather a pompous young gentleman, who expended most of his energies
trying to live up to his double surname, and in consequence was not
very popular with his schoolfellows. He rather fancied himself as an
elocutionist; and though he might have seen "rocks ahead" in the manner
in which the audience received the president's announcement,
Boswell-Jones had sufficient confidence in his own powers to be blind
to any lack of appreciation on the part of other people. He stood up
and adjusted his necktie, cleared his throat, and began,--

"I remembah, I remembah,
The house where I was bawn,

("Euh! re--ah--lly!" murmured the listeners.)

The leetle window where the sun
Came peeping in at mawn."

"Whose little son?" interrupted Dorris.

"Shut up!" cried the president.

"Well, I only wanted to know," said Dorris in an injured tone. "I
should call it jolly good cheek of anybody's son to come peeping in
through my bedroom window--"

"Shut _up_!" exclaimed Tinkleby. "Go on, Bos."

"He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now"--

continued the reciter with a great amount of pathos,

--"I often wish the night
Had bawn my breath away!"

"So do I," mumbled Paterson. "Let's have another song."

"I remembah, I remembah,
The roses, red and white--"

"Go on, Bossy," ejaculated the irrepressible Dorris; "you don't
remember it at all, you're simply making it up as you go along."

A general disturbance followed this last interruption--the audience
laughed, the president vainly endeavoured to restore order, and
Boswell-Jones sat down in a rage, and refused to continue his oration.

"A song, a song!" cried several voices. "Jack Fenleigh, you know
something; come on, let's have it."

Jack had a good voice, and with Mead extracting fearful