The chairman, by the way, was no other than our friend Bramble, who by reason of seniority--he had been two years in the Fourth Junior, and showed no signs of rising higher all his life--claimed to preside on all such occasions. He sat up at the top end in stately glory, higher than the rest by the thickness of a Liddell and Scott, which was placed on his chair to lift him up to the required elevation, blushingly receiving the applause with which his song was greeted, and modestly volunteering to sing it again if the fellows liked. The fellows did like. Mr Bramble mounted once more on to the seat of his chair, and saying, "Look-out for the chorus!" began one of the time-honoured Dominican cricket songs. It consisted of about twelve verses altogether, but three will be quite enough for the reader. "There was a little lad, (Well bowled!) And a little bat he had; (Well bowled!) He skipped up to the wicket, And thought he'd play some cricket, But he didn't, for he was-- Well bowled! "He thought he'd make a score (So bold), And lead-off with a four (So bold); So he walked out to a twister, But somehow sort of missed her, And she bailed him, for he was Too bold. "Now all ye little boys (So bold), Who like to make a noise (So bold), Take warning by young Walker, Keep your bat down to a yorker, Or, don't you see? you'll be-- Well bowled!" The virtue of the pathetic ballad was in the chorus, which was usually not sung, but spoken, and so presented a noble opportunity for variety of tone and expression, which was greedily seized upon by the riotous young gentlemen into whose mouths it was entrusted. By the time the sad adventures of Master Walker had been rehearsed in all their twelve verses, the meeting was so hoarse that to the two elder boys it seemed as if the proceedings must necessarily come abruptly to a close for want of voice. But no! If the meeting was for the moment incapable of song, speech was yet possible and behold there arose Master Paul in his place to propose a toast. Now Master Paul was a Guinea-pig, and accounted a mighty man in his tribe. Any one might have supposed that the purpose for which he had now risen was to propose in complimentary terms the health of his gallant opponents the Tadpoles. This, however, was far from his intention. His modesty had another theme. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began. There were no ladies present, but that didn't matter. Tremendous cheers greeted this opening. "You all know me; I am one of yourselves." Paul had borrowed this expression from the speech of a Radical orator, which had appeared recently in the papers. Every one knew it was borrowed, for he had asked about twenty of his friends during the last week whether that wouldn't be "a showy lead-off for his cricket feast jaw?" The quotation was, however, now greeted as vociferously as if it had been strictly original, and shouts of "So you are!"