Ramsey himself was in the same section of declaimers, and performed next—­a ghastly contrast.  He gave a “selection from Shakespeare,” assigned by the teacher; and he began this continuous misfortune by stumbling violently as he ascended the platform, which stimulated a general giggle already in being at the mere calling of his name.  All of the class were bright with happy anticipation, for the miserable Ramsey seldom failed their hopes, particularly in “Declamation.”  He faced them, his complexion wan, his expression both baleful and horrified; and he began in a loud, hurried voice, from which every hint of intelligence was excluded: 

“Most pottent, grave, and rev—­”

The teacher tapped sharply on her desk, and stopped him.  “You’ve forgotten to bow,” she said.  “And don’t say ‘pottent.’  The word is ’potent’.”

Ramsey flopped his head at the rear wall of the room, and began again: 

“Most pottent potent gray and revenerd signers my very nobe and approve good masters that I have tan away this sole man’s dutter it is mose true true I have marry dur the very headman frun tuv my fending hath this extent no more rude am I in speech—­in speech—­rude am I in speech—­in speech—­in speech—­in speech—­”

He had stalled.  Perhaps the fatal truth of that phrase, and some sense of its applicability to the occasion had interfered with the mechanism which he had set in operation to get rid of the “recitation” for him.  At all events, the machine had to run off its job all at once, or it wouldn’t run at all.  Stopped, it stayed stopped, and backing off granted no new impetus, though he tried, again and again.  “Hath this extent no more rude am I in speech—­” He gulped audibly.  “Rude rude rude am I—­rude am I in speech—­in speech—­in speech.  Rude am I in speech—­”

“Yes,” the irritated teacher said, as Ramsey’s failing voice continued huskily to insist upon this point.  “I think you are!” And her nerves were a little soothed by the shout of laughter from the school—­it was never difficult for teachers to be witty.  “Go sit down, Ramsey, and do it after school.”

His ears roaring, the unfortunate went to his seat, and, among all the hilarious faces, one stood out—­Dora Yocum’s.  Her laughter was precocious; it was that of a confirmed superior, insufferably adult—­she was laughing at him as a grown person laughs at a child.  Conspicuously and unmistakably, there was something indulgent in her amusement.  He choked.  Here was a little squirt of a high-school girl who would trot up to George Washington himself and show off around him, given the opportunity; and George Washington would probably pat her on the head, or give her a medal—­or something.  Well, let him!  Ramsey didn’t care.  He didn’t care for George Washington, or Paul Revere, or Shakespeare, or any of ’em.  They could all go to the dickens with Dora Yocum.  They were all a lot of smarties anyway and he hated the whole stew of ’em!