Part 54 (1/2)

A meeting was summoned for the same evening to inaugurate things generally. I was a little doubtful what I ought to do. Last term philosophy had not tended to diligent work, and with my good resolutions in view I felt that I should be better out of it. The little tiff with my comrades before the holidays had almost solved the difficulty; but since then I had been formally re-admitted to the fold, and it would be almost treasonable to ”scratch” now.

”I _move_ and third, and old Trim seconds and fourths,” announced Langrish, ”that old Sal be, and is, president as before.”

”And I carry that motion,” said Warminster, who prided himself on his acquaintance with the procedure of public meetings.

”I move an amendment,” said I.

”Shut up, or you'll be kicked out again,” said the secretary.

”Shut up yourself, or you'll be kicked in,” retorted I, feeling I must carry everything with a high hand if I was to carry them at all. ”No.

Look here, you chaps, I'm not so green as I look.”

”Then you must look fearfully green,” muttered c.o.xhead.

I took no heed of the interruption, which was not relevant, and proceeded,--

”It was all very well last term, but it won't wash this. What I say is, that if the c.o.c.k of the school is the head boy in the school, and the c.o.c.k of the house is the head boy in the house, the president of the Philosophers has got to be the chap highest up in the Philosophers, and that's not me. Now old Warminster is. _He's_ a jolly clever chap, and got the form prize on his head, and he's a rattling good speaker, and a middling sprinter, and writes a fairly good hand! _He's_ the sort of chap we want. We want some one who can keep the secretary, and treasurer, and auditor, and registrar, and all that lot, in their place, and doesn't mind telling them they're idiots when they are. I never could do it. It's rough on the club not to have a chap like Warminster,” continued I, waxing warm, and undaunted by the murmurs of my audience. ”He can make you all sit up. He's not the sort of chap to let the Philosophers go rotting about, talking what they know nothing about and all that. He'll see that the louts are kept out of it, and only fellows who've got a record of something are let in. Bless you, I used to let in any sort of bounder that asked! Look round you and see.

That's the sort of lot I let in. It won't wash, though. Fancy having a lot of outsiders who can't translate a Latin motto, and make 'corpore' a feminine genitive! Now old Warminster's a nailer at Latin, and can put one or two of us to bed at Euclid. He'll keep us out of blunders of that sort, that make all the school grin at us. I therefore propose, fifth, fourth, third, and second, that Tip. Warminster is the president of the Philosophers, and that the secretary, treasurer, auditor, registrar, and all that lot, get a month's notice to jack it up unless they're on the front desk. There you are! Of course they won't like it--can't help that. No back-deskers for us. Front desk or nothing!”

This oration, the longest I ever delivered so far, and in all probability the longest I ever shall deliver, was listened to with a curious mixture of discomfort and attention. At first it was nearly howled down, but it took as it went on. Warminster, for whom I really did not feel quite so much admiration as my words seemed to imply, but who yet was the hard-working man of our lot--Warminster was wonderfully pleased with it. The others, one by one, dropped their noisy protests, and looked out of the window. Trimble attempted a little bravado, by sticking his tongue in his cheek; but my peroration was listened to with marked attention.

”Cuts down the club a bit,” said c.o.xhead, who occupied a desk in cla.s.s on the third row, ”if it's only to be top-deskers.”

”Cuts old Sal out, to begin with,” said Langrish, who was just on the bench of honour.

”It'll cut you out next week, old hoss,” said I.

”Me! What are you talking about?”

”You wait till the week's order is up: you'll see.”

Langrish glared indignantly.

”If you think an idiot like you is going to--”

”Look here,” said Warminster, ”I vote we go easy at first, and make it any one who's not gone down in order in a month.”

”I say, n.o.body who's not gone up one in the term,” suggested Langrish, glancing defiantly at me.

”All serene,” said I, ”that'll suit my book. It'll be roughish on you, though.”

”Will it? See how you'll feel when you're chucked out neck and crop, my beauty!”

My main object had been to get out of being president. But, somehow, in doing it I had struck a note which made the Philosophers sit up. It was no credit to me it happened so, but it was one of those lucky flukes which sometimes turn out well and do a good stroke without the striker being aware of it.

Warminster was unanimously elected president, and bore his blus.h.i.+ng honours with due meekness.

”Old Sal”--the Philosophers had taken to abbreviating my pet name this term, I know not on what principle of familiarity--”Old Sal piles it on a bit,” remarked he. ”Of course he couldn't help rotting the club a bit last term. That's the way he's born. But considering what a rank outsider he was, I suppose he did his best.” (Laughter, and cries of ”What about Jarman's guy?”) ”Yes, that was a howling mess. I vote we keep out of that this term, or leave it to the louts. I tell you what,”

said he, ”I vote we make a show up at the sports next month, and take some of the side out of those day-boy kids. They fancy themselves a jolly sight too much.”