“Then I nominate—” Ware hesitated and ran his eye hastily over the astonished audience “—then I nominate Poole. He needs no recommendation and no eulogy. You know him too well. If you don’t happen to know him, ask any one who was here last June how the Hillbury game was won; and if you don’t hear Poole’s name in connection with it, don’t vote for him!” With that Ware dropped into his seat, and a din of howling and whistling and stamping of feet arose that proved Ware’s simple harangue an inspiration of genius. Twice Poole struggled to his feet, apparently with an important message to deliver, and twice he was pulled down again by his coat tail, ignominiously and hard. The chairman then declared the nominations closed, appointed the tellers, and called for votes. Not a soul, except the thirty fellows pledged, voted for Butler. Laughlin received two votes, Ware five, and Poole sixty-two. Butler moved that the vote be made unanimous, and Laughlin escorted the president-elect to the chair, where Poole stammered his thanks, and received and put to vote a motion to adjourn. Thus ended the most exciting election of the class of 19—. CHAPTER IX THE CONCERT AT EASTHAM “Had a hot time at your class meeting, I understand,” said Tompkins, who was killing a quarter of an hour in Wolcott’s room. “I wish I’d been there. Which side were you on, the kickers or the kicked?” “I voted for Butler,” replied Wolcott, with dignity. “Oh, you belong to that bunch! What’s the matter with Laughlin? Isn’t he good enough for you?” “He’s all right in his place. I don’t think he ought to be president of the class. He isn’t enough of a gentleman.” “Oh, isn’t he? Who is, then? Marchmont?” “Yes, or at least he looks like one and acts like one,” returned Wolcott, warmly. Tompkins stared. “Laughlin’s no dude, I’ll admit,” he said after some deliberation. “He’s never been able to get money at a bank just by signing a check, and I don’t suppose he’d feel entirely at home in a Fifth Avenue ballroom. But he’s worth as many Marchmonts as you can pile in that bedroom there—and a pile of Marchmonts would settle a good bit; they’d be pretty flabby.” “Please remember that Marchmont’s a friend of mine,” said Wolcott, haughtily. “Is he?” said Tompkins, coolly. “I’m not so sure of that.” This remark Wolcott received with chilling silence. “There’s one thing Marchmont can do all right,” went on Tompkins. “What’s that?” “Play the mandolin. He’s ’most as good as a nigger minstrel.” “There’s another thing he can do,” replied Wolcott, quickly, “write poetry. You’re mighty glad to get it for the _Lit_.” “Yes, there was some verse in the last number over his name,—rather streaky, I called it. Four stanzas were good and one was bum. The fellow who did the four good ones wasn’t a bad fist at writing rhymes.” “Well, Marchmont wrote them, didn’t he?” “Have I said he didn’t?” responded Tompkins, with an exasperating grin.