"Speech, speech!" shouted Marcus, running around the table and endeavoring to drag McTeague up.
"No — no — no," muttered the other. "No speech." The company rattled upon the table with their beer glasses, insisting upon a speech. McTeague settled obstinately into his chair, very red in the face, shaking his head energetically.
"Ah, go on!" he exclaimed; "no speech."
"Ah, get up and say somethun, anyhow," persisted Marcus; "you ought to do it. It's the proper caper."
McTeague heaved himself up; there was a burst of applause; he looked slowly about him, then suddenly sat down again, shaking his head hopelessly.
"Oh, go on, Mac," cried Trina.
"Get up, say somethun, anyhow," cried Marcus, tugging at his arm; "you GOT to."
Once more McTeague rose to his feet.
"Huh!" he exclaimed, looking steadily at the table. Then he began:
"I don' know what to say — I–I — I ain't never made a speech before; I–I ain't never made a speech before. But I'm glad Trina's won the prize—"