He was in the color guard. You see, the first boy called on for a
declamation was to announce the strike, and as my name stood very
high--in the alphabetical roll of pupils--I had an excellent chance of
leading the assaulting column, a distinction for which I was not at all
ambitious, being a stripling of tender years, ruddy countenance, and
sensitive feelings. However, I stiffened the sinews of my soul, girded
on my armor by slipping an atlas back under my jacket and was ready for
the fray, feeling a little terrified shiver of delight as I thought that
the first lick Mr. Hinman gave me would make him think he had broken my
back.
The hour for "speakin' pieces," an hour big with fate, arrived on time.
A boy named Aby Abbott was called up ahead of me, but he happened to be
one of the presidential aspirants (he was mate on an Illinois river
steamboat, stern-wheeler at that, the last I knew of him), and of course
he flunked and "said" his piece--a sadly prophetic selection--"Mr.
President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope."
We made such suggestive and threatening gestures at him, however, when
Mr.
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