"I s-s-suppose it's b-b-bed-time," said the chairman, and the boys adjourned.
On the third Friday evening the boys came together in some uncertainty in regard to who was to be the story-teller. But Will Sampson, the stammering president of the club, had taken care to notify John Harlan, the widow's son, that he was to tell the story. If there was any general favorite it was John; for while his poverty excited the sympathy of all, his manliness and generousness of heart made everybody his friend, and so, when Sampson got the boys quiet, he announced: "G-g-gentlemen of the order of the c-c-cellar-door, the story-teller for th-the evening is our friend Harlan. P-p-please c-come forward to the t-top, Mr. Harlan."
"I say, Hurrah for Harlan!" said Harry Wilson, and the boys gave a cheer.
"Give us a good one, John," said mischievous Jimmy Jackson.
"Order!" said the chairman. "Mr. Harlan has the fl-floor,—the c-c-cellar-door, I mean. Be q-quiet, J-J-Jackson, or I'll reprimand you severely."
"I'm perfectly quiet," said Jackson. "Haven't spoken a word for an hour."
JOHN HARLAN'S STORY.
Well, boys, I don't know that I can do better than tell you the story of one of my mother's old school-mates. His name was Samuel Tomkins——
"Couldn't you give your hero a prettier name?" said Jackson; but the president said "order," and the story went on.