"Yes, I do!" Ramsey whispered, passionately. "Honest, I do. Honest,
Brother Colburn, I got to get a drink of water. I _got_ to!"

"No. You can't."

"Honest, Colburn, I _got_--"

"Hush!"

Ramsey grunted feebly, and cast his dilating eyes along the rows of
faces. Most of them were but as blurs, swimming, yet he was aware (he
thought) of a formidable and horrible impassive scrutiny of himself, a
glare seeming to pierce through him to the back of the belt round his
waist, so that he began to have fearful doubts about that belt, about
every fastening and adjustment of his garments, about the expression of
his countenance, and about many other things jumbling together in his
consciousness. Over and over he whispered gaspingly to himself the
opening words of the sentence with which Colburn had advised him to
begin his argument. And as the moment of supreme agony drew close, this
whispering became continuous: "In making my first appearance before
this honor'ble membership I feel constrained to say in making my first
appearance before this honor'ble membership I feel constrained to say in
making my first appearance before this honor'ble mem--"

...It had come. The chairman announced the subject of the fourth
freshman twelve-minute debate; and Dora Yocum, hitherto unperceived
by Ramsey, rose and went forward to one of the small desks in the open
space, where she stood composedly, a slim, pretty figure in white.
Members in Ramsey's neighbourhood were aware of a brief and hushed