Sam’s jaw dropped. “Speech? Oh, thunder! but I can’t!” he protested.
“All the same, you’ll have to. It’s got to be put straight—the way we feel about it—all that.”
Poke wagged his head knowingly. “It’s the proper caper,” said he, in his philosophical fashion. “People always make speeches when they’ve got to break the ice and don’t know exactly how to go about it.”
Here was American common practice, if not the soundest of doctrine. The club was impressed.
“That’s so,” said two or three together.
“But——” Sam’s objection was cut short by a knock at the door.
The Trojan pushed him forward. Plainly there was no escape from the rôle his friends were forcing upon him.
Sam opened the door. Then, rising to the occasion, he caught the hand of a youth who stood on the step, and drew him into the room. Back of him the other boys formed a smiling semicircle.
“Tom Orkney,” said Sam very earnestly, “you don’t know how pleased I am to see you here. But I want you to understand that your election was unanimous, and that every one of us is mighty glad to have you a member of the Safety First Club!”