You've got my campstool, Mr.President, so we'll consider you in the chair.

May I state the business before the meeting ?" "Proceed, Mr.Furlong," requested Prescott gravely.
"Then, sir, and gentlemen-----" began Furlong.
"The chair calls you to order!" interrupted Dick sternly.
"Will the chair kindly explain the point of order ?" "It is out of order to make any distinction between the chair and 'gentlemen.'" "I yield to the---the pride of the chair," agreed Furlong, with a comical bow.

"Mr.Chairman and other gentlemen, the question that I wish to put is-----" Cadet Furlong now paused, glancing solemnly about him before he continued: "What are we going to do with the plebes ?" Dick dropped his tone of presiding officer as he answered: "I take it, Miles---pardon me, _Furlong_, that your question really means, what are we going to do to the plebes ?" "Same thing," contended the other yearling.
"Why should we do anything to them ?" asked Dick gravely.
"Why should we---say, did you hear the man ?" appealed Furlong, looking around him despairingly at the other yearlings.

"Why should we do anything to the plebes?
And yet, in a trusting moment, we elected old ramrod to be president of the class! Why should we---o-o-o-o-h!" Cadet Furlong made a gurgling sound in his throat, as though he were perishing for lack of air.
"Prescott isn't serious," hinted Griffin.
"Yes, I am," contended Dick, half stubbornly.

"Griffin, what did you think of yearlings---last year ?" "What I thought, last year," retorted Cadet Griffin, "doesn't much matter now.