“Look here, how can I read the minutes when—here we are—‘crock as Coxhead, who is champion dunce in Low Heath.’”
“What happened then?” said my mother, looking a little mixed.
“‘He was shunted to an outside berth, and was out of it.’”
“I rather think I was in it,” said I; “never mind.”
“Oh, if you think so, all right. The minutes say you were out of it. ‘He’d not begun to snore many minutes with deafening effect, when, as might be expected, Jarman set fire to the show to stop the noise.’”
“Do you think that’s why he did it, really?” asked Warminster.
“Look here, young Warminster. I don’t think, I—”
“Pity you don’t now and then,” remarked the newly-elected president.
Langrish looked hard at his colleague, and then glanced at my mother, whose face was bent over her work. Whereupon the secretary threw the minute-book at the president’s head, and observed,—
“Look out, Warminster; hand up that book, can’t you—it’s not yours.”