T. McKee,
President.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Fine. And tell the fellows that you see, so that they’ll talk it up.”
“Anything that you want me to do at the meeting?”
“Just call it to order and let me have the floor, if you will.”
“All right; that’s easy. I’ll make sure that we can have the assembly room at the Union, and then I’ll turn this notice in at the Crimson office. I’m glad you don’t want me to make a speech.”
“I wish I didn’t have to make one,” said Lester.
That evening the members of the senior class crowded into the assembly room; they filled the benches; they sat on the radiators; they stood against the walls and in the doorway. The notice of the meeting had excited curiosity, which had become increasingly keen since it appeared that no one knew why the meeting had been called. During the preliminary noise, the scraping of chairs and benches on the floor, the thumping and scuffling of feet, and the loud buzz of conversation, Lester sat on a bench immediately in front of the platform, silent, unresponsive to those near him.
McKee mounted the platform and stood behind the chairman’s table. He rapped on the table; he raised his voice; gradually the crowd became silent.
“The meeting will please come to order,” shouted McKee. “I have called this meeting at the request of our first marshal, and I will ask Mr. Lester Wallace to state what is in his mind.”