The others, one by one, dropped their noisy protests, and looked out of the window.

Trimble attempted a little bravado, by sticking his tongue in his cheek; but my peroration was listened to with marked attention.
"Cuts down the club a bit," said Coxhead, who occupied a desk in class on the third row, "if it's only to be top-deskers." "Cuts old Sal out, to begin with," said Langrish, who was just on the bench of honour.
"It'll cut you out next week, old hoss," said I.
"Me! What are you talking about ?" "You wait till the week's order is up: you'll see." Langrish glared indignantly.
"If you think an idiot like you is going to--" "Look here," said Warminster, "I vote we go easy at first, and make it any one who's not gone down in order in a month." "I say, nobody who's not gone up one in the term," suggested Langrish, glancing defiantly at me.
"All serene," said I, "that'll suit my book.

It'll be roughish on you, though." "Will it?
See how you'll feel when you're chucked out neck and crop, my beauty!" My main object had been to get out of being president.

But, somehow, in doing it I had struck a note which made the Philosophers sit up.

It was no credit to me it happened so, but it was one of those lucky flukes which sometimes turn out well and do a good stroke without the striker being aware of it.
Warminster was unanimously elected president, and bore his blushing honours with due meekness.
"Old Sal"-- the Philosophers had taken to abbreviating my pet name this term, I know not on what principle of familiarity--"Old Sal piles it on a bit," remarked he.