It had struck him that there was but one way to avoid having his ears pained and his soul polluted by the conversation that was the entertainment of the mess.

He must do his share of the talking, and so adapt it to his own taste and principles.

The lion's share Blair determined it should be, and that without unfairness, as he had to make up for lost time.

Once assured that Brimstone's unwashed hand was not to be placed over his mouth if he attempted to speak, and the cry, "Shut up, Mum," raised by his companions, Blair's tongue was set loose.
We have said that Blair was by no means averse to hearing his own voice; and much as his guiding motives and aims had changed, the Blair on board the Molly was still the same human being that he was in Joe Robertson's little parlor in Fairport.

Never did city belle strive more earnestly to make her conversation attractive to her hearers, than did our young patriot, actuated by a motive which is in comparison with hers as the sunlight to the glow-worm's uncertain ray.
Blair had songs to sing and speeches to make.