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The meeting did, vociferously and with cheers. Daisy ran and got her slate for the recording seckitary, who thereupon (after first inscribing the names of the office bearers in a shaky print) began to draw a wonderful picture of a pirate ship.

“Afore listening to the plans of our valued president,” said Mr. Bob, “I propose myself to h offer up a few general remarks on ‘Ope! Me and ‘Ope is old friends, genelmen. We set sail together from the port of London, ‘Ope and I, when I was a bright-faced boy that ‘igh! We’ve bunked in together, fair weather and foul, coming on this thirty year. We ‘ave set in our time, me and ‘Ope, on the bottom of a capsized schooner, ore laden out of Mazatlan, with our tongues ‘anging out like the tails of some vallyble new kind of a black dorg. ‘Ope and I took the Chainy coast once on a chicken coop. ‘Ope and I, when we ‘ad the dollars, blew them in right royal. ‘Ope and I, when we ‘adn’t none, tightened our belts and cheered each other h up. Looking back over all them years, I want to stand h up and testify right ‘ere to the best friend of the sailorman, bar none, and p’r’aps the h only one he ever truly ‘ad–and that’s ‘Ope, God bless her!”

Amid the ensuing uproar, which jarred the walls of that prim missionary residence like an explosion of dynamite, spilling plates off dressers and cock-billing texts, and arresting the astonished clock at four forty-six, little Daisy was trying to nerve herself to address the assembled company. The unforeseen docility of the band had put new ideas in that sleek, baby-seal head. Odds and ends of tracts and storybooks recurred to her. Infantile ambitions awoke and clamored. But it was daunting, just the same, to confront those rows of eyes, and those great big, unshaved, shaggy-looking faces, all keenly waiting for her to speak.

“Now, then, little lady,” said the vice president, “‘ere’s your Band of ‘Ope, a-panting to set its ‘and to the plow!”

Daisy cleared her throat. Pride and timidity struggled with each other in that eager little countenance. Had it not been for an encouraging squeeze from Mr. Bob, who knows but what she might have burst into tears, and disgraced herself before the whole band. But the squeeze, coming exactly at the right time, averted so mortifying a catastrophe.

“My dear friends,” began Daisy, catching with unconscious mimicry some of the rounded tones of her father’s voice–“my dear, kind friends!”

“Well, go on,” cried Mr. Bob; “that’s a swell start! That’s the way to wake them up!”

“Hear! hear!” (This from a dozen places.)

“I have called you togevver,” went on Daisy bravely, “so we might enjoy the travels of Saint Paul, which belongs to the magic lantern Santa Claus brought me this morning for Christmas, because I’m such a good little girl. Saint Paul was a kind of a sailor, too, and got shipwrecked, like Mr. Bob, in an awful storm. I used to know all about Saint Paul, but somehow I’ve got mixed up about him since. Perhaps one of our members will oblige, so we’ll know what the slides are about when we get w ound to them?”

There was a profound silence. No one volunteered. Billy Dutton, looking up from the pirate ship, to which he was adding some finishing touches, said he was afeared the president would find them a sad, ignorant lot of ignorpotammusses.

“Then we’ll just have to get along without Saint Paul,” said Daisy regretfully. “Perhaps it is as well, too, for Bands of Hope isn’t only for amoosement, but to do good, and help uvvers, and carry the glad tidings right and left into the darkest corners of the earth.”

“Gee-whilikins!” exclaimed Sammy Nesbit, “where’s this we’re fetching up to, mates?”