"Make it a second lieutenantship, then, Tubby. Anything to be friends,
you know."

"I said--"

"Oh, bother, if you want to be a major-general, go ahead. Nobody will
stop you."

"Hurrah, Major-General Tubbs!" cried Sam. "That sounds well, doesn't
it, fellows?"

"We'll have to present him with a tin-plated sword," came from one of
the crowd.

"And a pair of yellow worsted epaulets," added another.

And then Songbird Powell began to sing softly:

"Rub a dub, dub!
Here comes General Tubb!
He'll make you bow to the ground!
You must stop ev'ry lark,
And toe the chalk mark,
As soon as he comes around."

"There you are, Tubby; think of Songbird composing a poem in your
honor," cried Tom. "You ought to present him with a leather medal."

"I--I don't like such--er--such doggerel," cried William Philander Tubbs