“Sheffield, you may collect the votes,” said Mr. Tower.
The boy referred to passed among the desks with his hat, and the slips of paper were deposited therein. These were handed to the teacher, who forthwith proceeded to count them.
The count over, he rapped on his desk.
“Boys,” he said, “I will announce the vote. Votes cast, fifty. Of those Walter Sheffield has one; James Turner, two; and the remainder, forty-seven in number, are for Harry Raymond, to whom I have great pleasure in awarding the prize, of which he has been pronounced worthy by the nearly unanimous vote of his school-mates. Raymond, you will come forward.”
Harry Raymond advanced towards the teacher’s desk, amid the loud applause of his companions.
Mr. Tower placed in his hands a handsomely bound volume, consisting of selections from the best efforts of orators, ancient and modern, saying:—
“I have great pleasure in giving you this volume, Raymond, for my own judgment approves the selection of your school-fellows. I trust you will be able to express in your life, as you have so appropriately done upon the platform, the lofty and elevated sentiments of our best orators.”
There was a flush of gratification upon our hero’s cheek, as he received the book with a respectful bow, and returned to his seat amid the renewed applause of his fellow-pupils.