Oscar next introduced our hero to the President, and some of the leading members, all of whom welcomed him cordially.

“Good-evening, Mr. Fletcher,” said Harry, observing that young gentleman near him.

“Good-evening, sir,” said Fletcher stiffly, and turned on his heel without offering his hand.

“Fletcher don’t feel well,” whispered Oscar.  “He had a visit from a poor relation the other day—­a tin-pedler—­and it gave such a shock to his sensitive system that he hasn’t recovered from it yet.”

“I didn’t imagine Mr. Fletcher had such a plebeian relative,” said Harry.

“Nor did any of us.  The interview was rich.  It amused us all, but what was sport to us was death to poor Fitz.  You have only to make the most distant allusion to a tin-pedler in his hearing, and he will become furious.”

“Then I will be careful.”

“Oh, it won’t do any harm.  The fact was, the boy was getting too overbearing, and putting on altogether too many airs.  The lesson will do him good, or ought to.”

Here the Society was called to order, and Oscar and Harry took their seats.

The exercises proceeded in regular order until the President announced a declamation by Fitzgerald Fletcher.

“Mr. President,” said Fletcher, rising, “I must ask to be excused.  I have not had time to prepare a declamation.”

“Mr. President,” said Tom Carver, “under the circumstances I hope you will excuse Mr. Fletcher, as during the last week he has had an addition to his family.”

There was a chorus of laughter, loud and long, at this sally.  All were amused except Fletcher himself, who looked flushed and provoked.

“Mr. Fletcher is excused,” said the President, unable to refrain from smiling.  “Will any member volunteer to speak in his place?  It will be a pity to have our exercises incomplete.”

Fletcher was angry, and wanted to be revenged on somebody.  A bright idea came to him.  He would place the “printer’s devil,” whose admission to the Society he resented, in an awkward position.  He rose with a malicious smile upon his face.

“Mr. President,” he said, “doubtless Mr. Walton, the new member who has done us the honor to join our society, will be willing to supply my place.”

“We shall certainly be glad to hear a declamation from Mr. Walton, though it is hardly fair to call upon him at such short notice.”

“Can’t you speak something, Harry?” whispered Oscar.  “Don’t do it, unless you are sure you can get through.”

Harry started in surprise when his name was first mentioned, but he quickly resolved to accept his duty.  He had a high reputation at home for speaking, and he had recently learned a spirited poem, familiar, no doubt, to many of my young readers, called “Shamus O’Brien.”  It is the story of an Irish volunteer, who was arrested for participating in the Irish rebellion of ’98, and is by turns spirited and pathetic.  Harry had rehearsed it to himself only the night before, and he had confidence in a strong and retentive memory.  At the President’s invitation he rose to his feet, and said, “Mr. President, I will do as well as I can, but I hope the members of the Society will make allowance for me, as I have had no time for special preparation.”