“Say, ‘Mr. Tarbox has the floor’” piped Perry.
“Mr. Tarbox has the floor,” diapasoned the Chair.
“Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen —” Bill began, and stopped.
“Say, ‘Proceed, Sir!’” suggested Perry, which the senior did, magnifying the boy’s whisper a dozen times.
Again Bill began and stopped.
“Boys,” said he, dropping grandiloquence, “when I accepted the office of Orator of the Day at our primary, and promised to bring forward our Resolutions in honor of Mr. Wade with my best speech, I didn’t think I was going to have such a head of steam on that the walves would get stuck and the piston jammed and I couldn’t say a word.
“But,” he continued, warming up, “when I think of the Indian powwow we had in this very spot six months ago, — and what a mean bloat I was, going to the stub-tail dogs with my hat over my eyes, — and what a hard lot we were all round, livin’ on nothing but argee whiskey, and rampin’ off on benders, instead of makin’ good iron, — and how the Works was flat broke, — and how Dunderbunk was full of women crying over their husbands and mothers ashamed of their sons, — boys, when I think how things was, and see how they are, and look at Mr. Wade standing there like a —”
Bill hesitated for a comparison.
“Like a thousand of brick,” Perry Purtett suggested, sotto voce.
