“You!” scoffed Brad. “You couldn’t make a speech if your worthless life depended on it!”
“Run around! Run around! I taught Cicero and Billy Sunday all they ever knew! William Jennings Bryan was one of my first pupils!”
“Making a speech is no fun, anyway,” sighed Fred. “I made a awful mess of it the other night, and I knew it all the time and couldn’t seem to help it.”
“Well, you did sound a bit sepulchral,” agreed Gene. “I wanted to stick a pin into you or something.”
“You made a nice little address,” said Mart kindly. “I liked your speech, Gene. It was so short.”
“It would have been shorter if I’d had my way,” Gene grumbled. “For that matter, every fellow that spoke sounded as though he was just back from a funeral and didn’t expect to live long himself! We were a merry lot!”
“If those slips had been passed around before Rowland here leaped nimbly into the breeches—I mean the breach—you’d have collected the munificent sum of nine dollars and thirty-seven cents,” said Mart. “I already had my hand on the seven cents.”
“And I’ll bet you kept it there,” laughed Brad.
“You guess again! I subscribed for such a vast sum that I won’t get square with my allowance until Spring. And it was all your fault, Rowland. You and your Old Bess! If I run short I’ll be around here to borrow, so keep a little something handy.”