The evening of the contest arrived and with it the seating of seasoned, experienced, graceful, prize-winning orators, in comparison with whom I knew I should not and could not under any stretch of the imagination be placed. I wanted to give a speech in public, that was the height to which my expectancy went, but, of course, I had to set before me the prizes that were offered and be prepared for “accidents.” When my turn came and I faced that illimitable sea of white faces, I felt my feet slip from under me while I seemed to float above this conscious world. Then I picked out an interested face in the far, far corner of the church. At him I threw my strident voice, determined to make him hear what I had to say. The result was, in Thropper’s words, “Priddy, it seemed that you placed your pitch on top of the highest mountain in the world, and after that it was a scream, that’s all, old fellow. That was due to inexperience.”
But this failure was atoned for when the judges especially commented on the “careful thought,” “the good English,” and “the excellent form of the written oration” and when they marked me in second place on the literary side of the matter, I felt repaid with my first adventure into public speech. I felt that I had vindicated the struggles I had set before me, through the long years, to go through the school.
Chapter XII. The Personnel of
“The Clamorous Eight” and other
Social Matters. The “Blepoes”
and the “Boulomaies” Invite me
into Fellowship with a Protest from
Jason. Epics and Lyrics of Love.
“Pa” Borden Speaks for the
Benedicts on a Momentous Matter.
How the Magic Tree Lured Some
Unfaithful Ones from their Sworn
Duty
THE routine of that winter’s work was embroidered with many interesting social experiences. For though many of the students were stern in religious doctrine and practise, hearts were youthful and recreation was sought. Thropper belonged to a “Bachelor’s Club,” a facetious group of married and unmarried male students who met every now and then for the avowed purpose of upholding the dignity of bachelordom! Thropper also joined a “Moustache Club,” whose members met and compared lip sprouts and looked forward to the day when they would be sufficiently mature to be called “moustaches.” These two institutions were more satirical than practical; outlets for the humor resident in the students. But the “Clamorous Eight” was a real institution of the noisiest, most untamed spirits of the school, seven of whom were young men and the eighth member a young, gum-chewing, blondish, hobbledehoy girl in the Business department. What we knew of the charter of the “Clamorous Eight” was in their shoutings, their numerous practical jokes, their songs, and their rebellions against the University rules. If anything of an unlawful nature occurred, like the throwing of a live rooster into the sleeping room of a sedate female monitor or the placing near the chapel door of a stuffed dummy, suspicion of its own, fluent accord fixed itself first of all on the “Clamorous Eight,” and hung there with tenacity until every member had been through a “Faculty sweat.”
There were two rival literary societies in the University and the students were supposed to be portioned out between them. The “Blepoes” or “The Seers” and the “Boulomaies”—“The Willers” sent their agents after me and made a bid for my membership. These were not secret organizations, for such an institution was considered sinful by the University authorities. Their gatherings were open to the public and each student was supposed to attend the different meetings before deciding which society he would join. Jason, who considered even these literary meetings harmful to the morale of the students, on hearing that I had been asked to join one of them, sought me out and for a long mournful hour tried to make me promise to keep my name off their rolls, “For,” he whined, “they are of the Devil, brother Priddy!”
“What makes you think so?” I demanded.
“They joke in their meetings and tell light things and for every idle word God will hold us accountable!”
“But jokes and light conversation have their places in life, haven’t they?” I persisted.
Jason looked at me with his round, poet’s eyes growing rounder in wonderment.
“Lincoln couldn’t have borne the weight of the Civil War if it had not been for jokes and fun—at times,” I concluded.