The next Friday evening found all the members of the Cellar-door Club in their places. Will Sampson, the stammering “chairman,” was at the top, full of life and fun as ever. Jimmie Jackson, running over with mischief, was by him, then came Tom Miller and John Harlan, while Hans Schlegel and Harry Wilson sat at the bottom. After a half-hour spent in general talk about school and plays, and such miscellaneous topics as every gathering of boys knows how to discuss, the “chairman” called out,
“Come t-to order! Th-th-the C-cellar-d-d-door Society is c-called to order. G-g-gentlemen, the Hon. J-Jeems Jackson is the speaker f-for the evening. I h-have the pl-pleasure of introducing him to you.”
“No, you don’t!” said the shoemaker’s son; “don’t put it on so thick. If you want me to tell my yarn along with the rest of you, why, I’m ready, but if you call it a speech, you scare me out of my shoes, just like the man that tried to make a speech in the legislature, but couldn’t get any farther than ‘Mr. Speaker, I am in favor of cartwheels and temperance.’ Or, like a boy I knew, who tried to declaim the speech beginning: ‘Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears!’ and who got so badly confused on the first line that he said, ‘I’d like to borrow your ears!’”
This raised a laugh at the expense of Harry Wilson, who had broken down on that line, though he did not make it as bad as Jimmy represented it.
“G-g-go on with your story!” stammered the chairman, and Jackson proceeded.
