“All in favor of accepting Mr. Haxton’s resignation say aye,” persisted the professor.
“Aye,” said Moulton.
“Aye,” quickly echoed Clark.
“No,” shouted Haxton.
“No,” screamed Shelley, who had been striving to get an opportunity to protest. “I object to this sort of thing—you have no right.”
Rap, rap, rap went Professor Terbush’s gavel.
“The gentleman is out of order,” he ruled. “The chair votes aye. The ayes have it. Mr. Haxton, having resigned and his resignation being accepted, automatically ceases to be a member of this board. Mr. Haxton will please retire. Is there any further business?”
Professor Terbush had risen to the occasion and his rulings seemed to take the breath away from Haxton and his ally. Haxton, protesting and angry, seized his hat and departed; and a few moments later adjournment was taken.
Half an hour afterward Larry Kirkland and Winans were engaged in the highly intellectual sport of striving to put Big Trumbull under his bed. The sounds of their terrific struggle had brought youths in all stages of semi-undress, racing from their rooms to witness the long-delayed battle, which had been threatened if Trumbull persisted in practicing on his piccolo during study hours. Paw Lattiser’s entrance was unnoticed and he stood grinning silently until Trumbull, exhausted, surrendered and was pushed, a limp and helpless mass, under his own bed; while Winans and Kirkland danced a war dance of victory.
“Hello, Paw, what’s the good word?” demanded Winans, still breathing heavily.