“Well, Ranald, let us hear you,” he rather growled. Ranald went at his work with quiet confidence; he knew all the words.
“Page 187, Marco Bozzaris.
“At midnight in his guarded tent,
The Turk lay dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power.”
And so on steadily to the end of his verse.
“Next!”
The next was “Betsy Dan,” the daughter of Dan Campbell, of “The Island.” Now, Betsy Dan was very red in hair and face, very shy and very nervous, and always on the point of giggles. It was a trial to her to read on ordinary days, but to-day it was almost more than she could bear. To make matters worse, sitting immediately behind her, and sheltered from the eye of the master, sat Jimmie Cameron, Don's youngest brother. Jimmie was always on the alert for mischief, and ever ready to go off into fits of laughter, which he managed to check only by grabbing tight hold of his nose. Just now he was busy pulling at the strings of Betsy Dan's apron with one hand, while with the other he was hanging onto his nose, and swaying in paroxysms of laughter.
Very red in the face, Betsy Dan began her verse.
“At midnight in the forest shades, Bozzaris—”
Pause, while Betsy Dan clutched behind her.
“—Bozzaris ranged—”