Something had to be done about the case of Sergeant Bullam. For years he had ruled his beat with a rod of iron. Many a noble spirit had fallen a prey to his desire for notoriety and promotion. The slightest offence, the most innocent or technical infringement of the law, was sufficient pretext for him to indulge his thirst for student incarceration. The lettres de cachet and the Bastile were nothing to Bullam and the Cambridge jail. In the dark days when the ungrateful University town went prohibition, the tyrant had revelled in his opportunities. He had raided several of the club-houses and had charged Hollis Holworthy, the president of one of the clubs, with keeping a liquor nuisance. Of course this little joke on the superb Holworthy had exceedingly pleased all his friends; but it did not excuse Bullam. There had been isolated attempts at resistance and vengeance, and these had sometimes been successful, but never yet had Bullam suffered any great public downfall worthy of his oppression. He was wary to a high degree, and never ventured into the sacred Yard, where his uniform would have been only blue cloth and his buttons common brass.

The crafty Stoughton, however, had a scheme. He had been pondering over the case for some time, and Dick rarely pondered for nothing. He was known to his intimates as Machiavelli, called Mac the Dago for short. This particular plan was indeed worthy of his great namesake. He imparted it to Jack Randolph, who had the heaviest personal score against Bullam, and, therefore, the best title to share in his humiliation. They fixed the following night as Bullam's Ides and announced it to all their friends. They posted it in all the clubs, and in every way spread the glad tidings that on the morrow Bullam should be utterly cast down. They fixed the hour at about ten o'clock in the evening, and exhorted the people to gather themselves together in a great concourse to see their enemy made a cause of laughter unto them. The promise of the avenging prophets was to conduct a triumph along the whole length of Harvard Street and to lead in their train the haughty Bullam, humbled and a captive; he should even act as their body-guard if they so chose, and prevent all interference by his brothers of the force. How this millennial spectacle was to be brought about, they kept carefully secret.

There is, perhaps, in every man a certain element of moral obliquity, which, as he is put through any civilizing process, is squeezed out of him from time to time in varying forms and quantities. It comes to the surface, makes itself acutely felt and apparent for a short time, and then drops off,—just as a physical poison would act in his veins. At any rate, this is the only theory that can explain the highly reprehensible but firmly established custom among Harvard Freshmen of "ragging" signs. "Ragging," uninitiated reader, simply means stealing. What amusement, profit, or glory the Freshman finds in it has never been ascertained. He cannot tell exactly himself, and, as soon as he ceases to be a Freshman, wonders why he ever indulged in the habit. Perhaps the charm lies in the chance of getting into a scrape; but in most instances a sign can be taken with perfect safety. Now I cannot possibly think why I—but that is another story, as Mr. Kipling says.

I am going to digress, however, for one story in this connection. Ned Burleigh used to tell it on his room-mate, Steve Hudson. Steve always denied it vehemently, and declared that Burleigh did not even deserve the credit of a fabricator; that the story had been in college for years, and he had heard it told by a '42 man. Ned held that made no difference; that some one had to carry it for our four years and Steve was the best man for the position. According to him, Hudson, in walking back from Boston on a dark night in Freshman year, spied a tempting sign hanging on a door-post. He secured it by some difficult climbing, and tucking it under his overcoat, went on his way. On arriving in his room he announced that he had a prize, and, unbuttoning his coat, he displayed to Burleigh's delighted gaze, his only evening suit and the sign "Fresh Paint."

This practice of stealing signs had made Bullam's meat of many a Freshman. In fact, the diligent Sergeant depended upon it for most of his [Greek: kudos] so Dick Stoughton had determined to play upon his keenness in this respect, and use a sign as the bait with which to hook his fish. On the appointed evening he and Randolph went to Cambridgeport, and bought a barber's pole. They were careful to get a receipted bill from the barber with an accurate description of the pole. The latter was marked with the barber's name in gilt letters, and was small enough to be nearly, but not quite, covered with an overcoat. Thus provided, they started back for Cambridge proper (the Port being usually known as Cambridge improper) along Main Street, keeping as much as possible in the shadows. At the end of half a dozen blocks, they came on a policeman, and promptly crossed the street in a most alluring manner. The vigilant officer, noticing the suspicious shape of Randolph's overcoat held under his arm, gave chase. The end of the pole stuck out from the coat, and it was useless for the students to protest that they had nothing that did not belong to them. They assured their captor that the pole was theirs, that they had paid for it and could prove the fact; but he insisted upon taking them before the captain of the precinct.

The captain had had a hard day, and was preparing to go to bed when they were brought before him. He was tired and cross, and his humor was not improved by this new arrival. When Stoughton showed the receipt, however, he at once discharged the prisoners with much pleasure, and reprimanded the overcareful officer.

The two then went on to the next guardian of Main Street, and he bit equally well. They warned him of the result, and gave him their word of honor that the pole was not stolen. He hesitated, and for a moment they feared that he was going to be decent enough to believe them. But he was a new and zealous recruit on the force and the bait was too inviting; so he decided not to trust them. He was as polite as possible about it and when he even apologized for not taking their word, they came near melting and showing the receipt. But the fall of Bullam was not to be averted, simply because gentler tyrants might be entrained. So back they went to headquarters.

The captain came down in a red dressing-gown, the skirt of which flapped idly in the breeze that came through an open window in the office. His bare feet were shoved into a pair of carpet slippers, each foot in the wrong slipper. With one hand he held a candle that wiggled in the candle-stick and dropped wax on his wrist, and with the other hand tried to keep the dressing-gown about his person. His frame of mind faithfully carried out the spirit of the picture. To any guilty prisoner he would have been indeed a terrifying spectacle; but he could do nothing to the innocent and insulted gentlemen who had been haled before him. He therefore relieved himself on their captor. The poor man got such a dressing down, that when they left the office, Randolph presented him with full forgiveness, a dollar bill, and the advice to learn as soon as possible to tell a Senior from a Freshman.

The next policeman they met was old George Smith. He held them up with a look of surprise, and a remark that he thought they had been in college too long to be "ragging" barber's poles. When they explained to him, however, he of course believed them, and grinned as he perceived something in the wind.

"It is lucky that was George," said Stoughton, as they went on. "If we had struck a strange cop, who thought we were liars, we should have brought down the wrong bird. That police captain is just exactly primed and loaded to the muzzle, and all ready to go off. Now for Bullam!"

They had now reached Quincy Square, and saw the fated form of Bullam loom in the offing. They made for him boldly; there was no need of finessing in his case. The moment his hawk eye caught sight of the ill-concealed pole, he bore down on them with a grim joy.

"What have you got under that coat?" he demanded in his usual suave tone.

"None of your business," responded Jack Randolph, with an inward chuckle.

"It isn't, eh! Do you think I can't see that pole a-sticking out there? Do you think you can steal signs under my very nose? You come along with me now, and we'll see whether it's none of my business."

"If your insulting remarks refer to this barber-pole," replied Randolph, producing the pole with ostentatious confidence, "allow me to tell you that it belongs to us, and we have a perfect right to carry it wherever we please. Although, as I said before, it is none of your business, I will condescend to let you know that I bought it lately, and have a receipt for it in my pocket."

"You can't give me no such bluff as that," sneered Bullam. "You can tell that to the captain of the precinct. I'll give you a chance to show your receipt."

"Look here, my man," (nothing makes a gentleman of Bullam's class more angry than to call him "my man") answered Stoughton, "you don't deserve it after the language you have used to us, but, nevertheless, I give you fair warning not to do anything of the kind. If you take us to the captain, you will get into trouble."

Bullam was beside himself. The more they said to him the more furious he became, and finally threatened to use his club "if they gave him any more guff." So, in high delight, the two injured youths took their way a third time towards the house of the captain.

The policeman who had last had them in charge turned quickly away as they passed, and shoved his handkerchief into his mouth. It was a grateful balm to the new man to see a veteran going into the same trap that had just lacerated him. Moreover, Bullam was quite as unpopular in the force as with the students.

All was dark in the house where lay the uneasy head that wore the crown of the precinct. Bullam rang the bell, with a ferocious glare at his prisoners, as though tolling their death knell. A minute afterwards a window opened above, and a head was thrust forth.

"Who is there?" bellowed a voice, now familiar to our much-arrested pair.

"Sergeant Bullam, sir, with an arrest."

Dick and Jack took care to stand under a gas-lamp.

"Have you got two men there with a barber's pole?" asked the voice, rising from a roar to a shriek.

"Yes, sir," chuckled Bullam, gleefully, mistaking the direction of his superior's wrath. "I caught——"

"Didn't they tell you that it was their property, bought and paid for?"

"Yes, they had some cock-and-bull——"

"Stop!" thundered the captain, "you're too —— ready to think every gentleman you meet is a liar. Don't you be so —— —— hot after your promotion. If you'll give more attention to your important duties, and less to making capital out of the students, you'll get ahead faster. Now you go all the way back with these gentlemen, and see that they are not troubled any more. If they are brought here again I'll know who to blame for it. I'll have you up for a breach of special duty, and make it hot for you. What's more, you treat them civilly. I'll have no bullies on my squad. If this man gives you boys any lip, come around and see me about it in the morning. Now get out of here, and you, Bullam, mind what I tell you, and be —— —— careful."

All the blanks in the foregoing address were filled in with deep color, and the window went down with a slam that heavily sank in the sickened soul of the astonished Bullam.

"Come along, sergeant," cried Randolph, cheerfully, shouldering the barber-pole. He and Dick led the way back through Quincy Square, whistling the "Rogue's March" and the "Père de la Victoire." The overwhelmed Bullam fell in behind. As they turned down Harvard Street, he walked slowly and tried to drop back to a distance which would disguise his connection with the parade; but his conquerors allowed no such break in the procession. They slowed down, too, and kept about ten feet in front of him.

On the first corner of Harvard Street were stationed three or four small boys (the occasionally useful Cambridge muckers) employed as vedettes. Upon the approach of the triumph, they dashed off to the different clubs and gathering-places where the long oppressed people were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Bullam in chains. These all flocked to Harvard Street, Hudson bringing his cornet, Dixey a pair of cymbals, and Ned Burleigh flourishing the drum-major's baton, with which he had done mighty service in the last torch-light procession. It was going to be the most glorious triumph ever seen in the classic shades since Washington rode through them on his white charger.

But, alas! what a trivial thing may upset the grandest strategy; what a petty boor may defeat Ulysses! Yet it was not such a petty boor who caused the ruin in this case; it was the Cambridge mucker, and he should never have been overlooked by a man of Machiavelli Stoughton's experience. Those who know the Cantabrigian guerilla respect his power, though they abhor his ways. An influential member of this free lancehood, having demanded a quarter for the vedette service before mentioned, and being refused employment, nursed a vindictive spirit. He gathered a band on Harvard Street, near to the advanced scouts, and waited to see what was going to happen. As soon as Stoughton and Randolph came up with the attendant Bullam, this unforeseen enemy raised a joyful shout and marshalled his comrades behind the trio. As they proceeded along the street, he yelled to every mucker they passed, "Hey, ragsy, come on! Here's two o' de Ha'vards gettin' run in!"

Muckers gathered from every side like jackals, and Bullam, realizing the sudden turn in the aspect of affairs, no longer lagged behind, but forged up alongside of his would-be tamers, and assumed his old fierce and haughty air. He could maintain his dignity before the public anyway.

This was the way Dick Stoughton's great triumph looked when it reached a point opposite the Yard. The expectant crowd of undergraduates looked for a moment in surprise and grief, then, notwithstanding their disappointment at Bullam's escape, a great roar of laughter went up, as they concluded that the two daring plotters had egregiously failed in their attempt and were on their way to a dungeon.

"Let's bail them out," cried two or three. "Bail nothing, you idiots," shouted the chagrined Stoughton, "we are not arrested; this man is our body-guard. Come on, and we will take the procession around the Square and up Garden Street."

This had been Dick's original intention as to the line of march; but just at this moment the Dean of Harvard College came around the corner of Holyoke Street and stopped short. In the direction of Harvard Square lay the jail, and Stoughton at once decided that a triumph of such uncertain appearance had better be brought to a close right where they were. He and Randolph halted, therefore, and, waving aloft the barber's pole, gave Bullam their gracious permission to depart. As a little extra effect they ordered him to disperse the rabble, to which mandate he payed no attention. Then, with as much dignity as possible, they retreated into Foster's. It was the best effort they could make to retrieve the day, a weak ending to so magnificent a scheme.

They did not hear the last of their "grand pageant" for a long time; but their own recollection of it will always be softened by the memory of those sweet moments beneath the captain's window.

Besides the "officers of instruction and government," and the instructed and governed, there are many classes and individuals that make up the university population of Cambridge—unofficial members, whose names do not appear in the catalogue. There are the camp followers, the goodies, the janitors, the Poco, John the Orangeman, Riley, the O'Haras who "understand th' busniz," and all the other dignitaries, as firmly established and well recognized as the Faculty. Probably the most numerous of the unofficial classes is the great four-legged one. There are undergraduate dogs, and law-school dogs, and post-graduate dogs, and I believe there were one or two Divinity dogs. During our time there were several very distinguished dogs in the Faculty, notably one huge bull-dog. Among the undergraduates, the ugliest and most perfect in form and feature, the most polished and attractive in manner, the most genial and popular, in every way the leader par excellence, was Rattleton's round head bull-terrier Blathers.

Blathers was named after the great man who bred him. That celebrated fancier was renowned throughout Cambridge for two things, his dogs and his profanity. He could outswear Sawin's expressman, Hitchell the black scout, and the janitor of Little's Block, and any one who could excel those three was indeed an artist. I do not believe, however, that the recording angel entered all of Blather's items in the debit column:—in the first place, he would not have had time, in the second place, most of Blather's oaths were not delivered in anger, in the sense of Raca, but flowed out innocently and unconsciously, merely as aids to conversation. One morning this worthy came into Rattleton's room, bearing in his hand a little brindled object about five inches long. It looked like a stub-tailed rat, whose nose had been smashed with a lump of coal.

"Good mornin', Mr. Rattleton; beg your pardon for intrudin', sir, but I've got sumpthin' here I want for to show yer. I've got a magnificent animal."

"Oh, get out, Blathers; I don't want a dog; had to give away the last one."

The following speech was bristling with profanity, but I have omitted even the indication blanks, except in one passage where they were too characteristic to be left out.

"I don't want yer to buy him, sir. I just want to show him to yer. He's a beauty. I know yer knows the points of a dog, sir, and its just a pleasure I'm givin' yer to look at him. Just take him in your hand, sir. Now, I sold Mrs. G. an own half brother of that feller. You know Mrs. G., surely, down here to the Theolog. school?" (Mrs. G. was a most charming and gentle lady, the wife of a celebrated clergyman.) "Well, I stopped at her house the other day to see how she liked the pup. She says to me, 'By ——, Blathers,' says she, 'that's the —— —— finest dog ever I see; d—— me, if it ain't,' says she. Yes, sir, that's just what she thought about him. You go ask her and see if it ain't. And she wouldn't say nothin' she didn't mean, just to tickle me, neither. Mrs. G. is a real lady, and knows the points of a dog, she does. She was —— ---- kind to my wife when she was sick last time. Oh, my wife's been orful sick, Mr. Rattleton. I had to pay for a lot of doctor's consults and other stuff; that's just the only reason, sir, I want to sell this beautiful pup. I 'd never part with him in this world, if I could help it."

Blathers never would have parted from any of his dogs had it not been for his frequent family afflictions. These afflictions were always very expensive and varied, from the funeral of his mother to the birth of twins. He buried four mothers in one year; that was his best work, though six children born during the following term pushed hard on the record.

"If I could only make up my mind to let yer have that dog, Mr. Rattleton," he went on, "it would work both ways. Maybe I ought to do it. It would be a favor and a kind thing in me to sell yer that pup at any price, and you'd be doin' a charity to a poor man in helpin' me along. It would be a good action all around, see? Oh, I need the money orful bad."

Rattleton during this speech had been playing with the puppy, and he was struck both by the brightness of the little fellow and the logic of his owner. He knew that Blathers really did have rather hard times with his family. In any case Lazy Jack never took the trouble to sift a tale of woe and apply the most enlightened and efficient remedy. He had no excuse for not doing so; he took the Social Ethics Course in Philosophy because it was easy, and of course he knew how wrong it is to give to a beggar; nevertheless, he rarely failed to do so if he had a coin in his pocket, because it was so much easier than making enquiries and giving advice. Moreover Jack was so lacking in principles, that if he thought the beggar looked cold and in want of a hot whiskey, he was, if anything, more apt to yield the ill-destined alms. In this instance the insidious Blathers had struck him in two vulnerable spots, his very weak nature, and his love of dogs. He also wanted to get rid of Blathers with his endless stream of lurid and decidedly rum-flavored eloquence, and the easiest way to do so was to buy the puppy.

It was in his master's Sophomore year that Blathers, the pup, began his career. He waxed fast in beauty and knowledge. His nose grew in and his teeth grew out, his ears assumed the correct angle and his legs the proper curve. His tail in babyhood had been scientifically bitten off by the gentleman after whom he was named, and was, therefore, of exactly the right length. He went through the distemper and gave it to every dog in his club. His spirit did not belie his points; before the end of his junior year he had tackled almost every dog in Cambridge and generally came out on top. He was a dog of marvellous tact, also; he learned not to growl at the proctor on his staircase. Rattleton spent much time on Blather's education—so did Rattleton's friends. The latter, among other accomplishments, succeeded after great effort in teaching him to drink beer; but Blathers never went beyond the bounds of propriety, as did frequently that disreputable Irish terrier of Dixey's.

Blather's most prominent virtue of all was devotion to his master, and his affection was fully returned. Those two were rarely apart, except in the mornings, before Rattleton was up. Blathers always got out with the nine o'clock lecture men and chapel goers, and would visit around at the various club-tables where he had friends, generally collecting five or six breakfasts before his master arose. At about eleven o'clock he would be seen, sitting with his arms akimbo, in front of the Holly Tree; then Jack was sure to be inside, getting the marvellous dropped eggs from the sad-eyed John. If ever Blathers frequented the steps of Massachusetts, Sever, or other lecture hall, all men would know that Jack Rattleton was again on probation. If they saw the dog on the grim stone Stair of Sighs in the south entrance of University, they would make sympathetic inquiries when next they met the master.

When the round black and brown head stuck out of the window of Riley's cab, it was certain that Rattleton was bound over the bridge. They even went once or twice to the theatre together, Blathers concealed under Jack's overcoat. Though pugnacious by nature, it was not because Blathers loved other dogs less, but fighting more. He loved a row for its own sweet self, had few enemies and several warm friends. He was particularly devoted to Hudson's Topsy, and engaged in many a combat on her account, and for her edification. There were only two dogs for whom he had any real aversion—Mike Dixey, of his own class, and Baynor's white bull-dog, of the class below him.

Probably the happiest moment of Blathers college life occurred one day on Holmes' Field. There was a class ball-game going on; the Sophomores were ranged on one side of the field, the Juniors opposite. The white bull-dog had been barking in time with the cheering, yelping at the players of the opposing team, trying to "rattle" the pitcher, and making himself generally conspicuous and obnoxious. Finally, in the excitement over some good play, he slipped his collar and ran into the outfield to congratulate the centre-fielder. Somehow or other (Ned Burleigh probably knew), Blathers happened to get loose at the same moment. With a heralding bark he flew into the listed field and made straight for the white champion. All interest in the ball-game ceased at once. With a great shout the two opposing crowds rose from the seats en masse, and swept across the diamond, "blocking off" the owners of the two dogs, who rushed to separate them. In the rush, five or six more terriers got adrift, and reached the front well ahead of their masters. In just about ten seconds there was a ball of at least seven dogs of various fighting breeds, rolling about in a halo of hair, howls, and pure delight. After a few minutes, their masters succeeded in pushing through the surrounding crowd, and each man laid hold of a dog's tail or hind leg. By dint of heaving and kicking, the happy party was at last broken up, and at the bottom of the pile were found Blathers and the white bull-dog. They were locked in a fond embrace, and it took hot water from the gymnasium to get them apart. Ever after that Blathers bore a scar on the side of his head; but he was proud of that mark, for there was a larger and more distinct one on the Sophomore dog.

Blathers got into a scrape in his Senior year that nearly caused his expulsion from the University, and compromised his master seriously. An aunt of Rattleton's came out to Cambridge one afternoon, for the purpose of attending the Thursday Vespers in Appleton Chapel. She notified Jack that she expected him to escort her. Jack got his room in order, with some difficulty, expurgated the ornaments and pictures, put his aunt's photograph on the mantel-piece and a Greek lexicon on the table, and sent Blathers to spend the afternoon with a friend. Aunt could not abide a dog, especially one of Blathers' type of beauty. So Mr. B. went off with Jack Randolph.

Randolph's room was in the back of Thayer, and his window commanded the approaches to Appleton Chapel. Blathers was squatted in the window-seat with his head on one side, idly watching the birds, and wondering where his master could have gone. Suddenly his eye fell on that very person, and with him one of that kind of humans whose legs are all in one piece. Blathers had seen lots of that kind, and knew well enough what they were; but what could one of them possibly be doing with his master, right here in Cambridge, at this time of year? He had never seen such a thing as that before, except once on Class Day. It was for this, then, that he had been dismissed for the afternoon! Well, well, well, pretty goings on! He betrayed his astonishment and irritation by a low "wuff!" jumped down from the window-seat, and scratched at the door.

"No," said Randolph, looking at him, "you can't get out. Did you see a cat?"

Blathers came over to the arm-chair, stood up, putting both hands on Randolph's knees, and looked at him appealingly.

"Yes, I know," said Randolph, "your master has deserted you for the afternoon, hasn't he? Mean trick, isn't it? And where do you suppose he has gone? To Vespers, think of that! Don't shake your head, Blathers, it's true——" "Wuff!" "Yes, rather remarkable, I know; no wonder you say so. But don't blame him; he couldn't help it, and it will do him good."

A few minutes afterwards Randolph threw away his book, and took his cap.

"Come, Blathers," said he, "we'll go over to the Pud for awhile. You may find your friend Topsy there."

No sooner had he opened the door than Blathers scrambled down-stairs with that graceful motion peculiar to a terrier on urgent business; his hind-quarters shoved his head all the way down-stairs, and tripped over it at the bottom. He shot out of the door as if after a cat, whisked round the corner, and made straight for the Chapel. On the steps, however, he paused, for, at that moment, coming up the path from Memorial, he saw a sight that made his blood boil. Hudson and Dixey were strolling back from the Agassiz, and trotting ahead of them were Topsy and that abominable Mike Dixey. As has been mentioned before, Mike was a dog of very loose character. He would get intoxicated on beer whenever he could find any one to "set it up." He belonged nominally to Dixey, but was really a sort of dog-about-college. He would attach himself to any one whom he could work for crackers and beer. He did not mind spending the night on a door-step, and associated with all the street curs. He would hang around the public billiard-rooms and Foster's, and do tricks for sandwiches. Sometimes he would disappear on a spree for days, get caught by the muckers, and come home with a tin can in tow. Altogether he was no fit company for a lady, and when Blathers saw this low-lived animal walking with his Topsy, reverence for the spot could not restrain his indignation. Right in front of the Chapel door he insulted the Irish terrier, and before the men behind could come up, then and there the fight began. Rattleton, within, heard the sounds of conflict rise above the anthem, and, by some vague intuition, his blood ran cold. Another moment and Mike came flying up the aisle with yelps of pain, evidently seeking sanctuary. Blathers may have had a deep reverence for Appleton Chapel (barring the architecture), but his blood was up, and he did not stop to think. He pursued the flying foe, overtook and grabbed him again, just beyond Rattleton's pew, and alongside of that of a couple of magnates. Jack thought it would be better to remove those two dogs himself, and did so, one in each hand. But there was no use in pretending that he did not know to whom that scientific bull-terrier belonged. The men outside had some difficulty in persuading him that they were in no way responsible for the episode.

Mr. Blathers lived long and went to many places, but that was the only time he ever attended services in church.

That evening at dinner Burleigh and Rattleton entertained the table with a glowing description of a new play they had seen on the previous night, at the Howard Athenæum. They were most enthusiastic about it.

"I can't understand," declared Burleigh, "how such a piece and such a troupe happened to drop into the old Howard. Such scenery! Why, the stage setting was the best I ever saw. One act was laid in the pine woods; you could look way through them, apparently, live birds flew about among the branches, and they must have burned some sort of balsam in the wings, for you could actually smell the pines."

"That's a new smell for the Howard," remarked Hudson.

"Yes, and those two girls!" added Jack Rattleton. "By Jove, wasn't that blonde a beauty!"

"The brunette was better," averred Burleigh. "How she did sing! They have splendid songs all through the play."

"Never saw such acting," said Jack, "even—certainly never at the Howard."

"The hero was a magnificent young man," Burleigh went on. "You ought to see him throw down the villain in the last act. I'm going again as soon as I can."

"Why haven't we heard of it before?" queried Stoughton, suspiciously.

"It was a first night," explained Burleigh, promptly. "Jack and I were pioneers. You fellows ought to go see it. You'll hear enough of it before it is over; but go in now while it is fresh."

"I have nothing to do to-night," said Hudson. "I believe I'll go. Who is with me?"

Stoughton and Gray both agreed to join him. Holworthy and Randolph were going to drive over to a ball in Brookline.

"I'd give anything to go with you chaps," said Burleigh, "but I have got to work into the wee sma' hours on my forensic. It is due to-morrow morning, and I haven't done a thing on it."

"I'd like to see that show again, too," said Jack, "but I don't feel very well to-night. I'm going to turn in early."

The three theatre-goers started for town immediately after dinner. They stopped at one of the clubs first, and picked up three or four other men on the strength of Burleigh's eulogy of the play.

Whoever has been through Harvard College and never been to the Howard Athenæum has neglected his advantages; fortunately such deplorable instances are rare. Who, that has improved his opportunities, does not remember the old stamping-ground, where the commingled perfumes of orange-peel, humanity, and peanuts would smell to high heaven, were they not stopped in a concentrated mass by the grimy roof. There things are real, things are earnest, unweakened by affectation and refinement. The villains are real bad villians, and carry knives, not cigarettes. They know how to gloat. The heroes have red undershirts and true nobility, and don't mind showing either. The heroines are not ashamed of sentimentality. Neither is the audience. There, too, is music that you can remember and whistle, that you can sing afterwards on the way back to Cambridge; not music that you must contemplate with rapt gaze on the ceiling. There you will find humor of the broad, plain, unmistakable variety, humor at which you can laugh for its own sake, not for the maker's wit or your own in detecting it. Nor, in that shrine of the Muses, does pleasure always end with the fall of the curtain. Frequently you may see two or three excellent fights on the way out, and perhaps be granted a share in one yourself. Oh, you get your money's worth at the classic Athenæum, for it is all for fifty cents (thirty-five in the gallery).

"I have a suspicion," said Stoughton, on the way in town, "that those fellows were lying to us. I'll bet this show is something awful, they were probably bored to death, and conceived the happy thought of getting us sold in the same way."

"Never mind," said Hudson, philosophically; "we'll have a good time anyway."

Before the curtain had been up ten minutes, Dick's suspicion gained ground; it's truth was fully confirmed long before the end of the play. The scenery, the birds, and the pine balsam effects were wholly creatures of Burleigh's capable brain; as for Jack Rattleton's houris, Stoughton declared that "Noah was a fool to have saved them; he ought to have shut them out in the rain long enough to get a wash any way."

Even the Athenæum audience was dissatisfied and inclined to jeer. Gray wanted to leave at the end of the first act.

"Hold on," insisted Hudson, "let's stay here and make this a success. There's lots of good sentiment all through it, just your style Gray. All it needs is a little enthusiasm in the house to warm up the actors. Let's lead the applause on the strong points."

So they stayed, and their efforts were attended with such success, that they might have had a free pass for future performances. Every time the hero said, "I am the just man and you are the villain," or the heroine declared she would never leave him while life lasted, or showed other symptoms of heroism, the knot of students would stamp, and applaud, and rouse the finer feelings of the whole house. The grateful actors certainly did warm up, and delivered with more and more vim their honest expressions of lofty sentiment and occasional touches of patriotism, the latter utterly uncalled for, but always welcome. The audience became worked up as well, but in the last act suddenly began to hiss.

"Hullo! what's up now?" asked Gray, who had not taken the Athenæum course faithfully, and was not learned in it; "what are they hissing at?"

"Good gracious, man," answered Hudson, "don't you see? Don't display your ignorance. They are hissing the villain. It's the greatest compliment you can pay him. Go ahead, hiss like a good one."

On the whole, the performance was a grand success, and Hudson insisted that Gray had made an undoubted conquest of the second lady. After it was over some one mentioned "broiled lob. and musty," at Parks, but it was voted to return to Cambridge and make a rarebit there.

"We'll go pull out Ned Burleigh, and have it in his room," suggested Dick.

"No you don't!" exclaimed Hudson. "You forget I'm his chum. I'll have no Welsh rarebit made in that room unless we draw lots and I get stuck. The room would smell of cheese and stale beer for twenty-four hours."

"Let's land on Rattleton then. We'll teach him to lie."

Feeling in a luxurious mood they scorned the cars, and chartered a herdic, four men getting inside and three on the roof. For those readers who know not the herdic, I will explain that it is a sort of tiny omnibus in which four thin people can sit uncomfortably. It usually has two wheels and never more than one horse—sometimes not quite as much.

"I may as well tell you before we start," said Stoughton, who sat on the top, to the driver, "that we are not Freshmen, so don't break a spring on the bridge and tell us that it will cost you ten dollars to get it mended."

"I know you're old hands," answered Jehu, with a grin, "I know youse fellers. I remember your face pertickler. Mebbe you disrecollect comin' out with me one night from Parker's. Let's see, guess it was two years ago, after the Institoot dinner."

"All right, my friend, say no more," acknowledged Dick, as the other two men shouted. "The drink is on me. Here is the price of it."

The door at the back of the herdic is held shut with a strap that leads through the roof to the driver's seat. This was secured firmly, so as to keep the inside passengers safe, for it is an established courtesy for those inside to slip out when near the college, leaving the others to pay the driver and joining them later. By means of the strap, however, and the lack of a knife among the insiders, all arrived well together at the building where Rattleton roomed.

"I'll go to the Fly and get the cheese and beer," said Gray. "You get your chafing-dish, Dick."

Stoughton roomed in the same building with Rattleton, as did Hudson and Burleigh. While he went after his chafing-dish the others reconnoitered Rattleton's quarters. The door was locked and all was dark. The glass ventilator over the door, however, was unfastened, and large enough to admit a man. Jack Rattleton always left his ventilator unfastened, for he often depended on it for his own ingress. The reason of this was very simple,—the door had a spring bolt, and it was characteristic of Mr. Rattleton's nature to frequently leave his keys inside and shut the door when he went out. It was a very simple matter for Hudson to climb over the door through this ventilator, drop down, and open the door from the inside.

"Look out for Blathers," said one man. "If that pretty pup is in there he'll take a piece out of your leg."

"He knows my voice," answered Hudson, as he "shinned" over. He let the rest in and lit the gas. Rattleton was not in his bedroom.

"Humph," grunted Hudson. "Said he wasn't well and was going to turn in early. The abominable liar."

They poked up the fire and had it roaring when Stoughton returned, bearing the chafing-dish and a long pipe, his dear Mary Jane.

"That's a good idea," said Hudson, as his eye fell on the latter article. "You've brought that disgusting black pipe. We can stand it for a while, and it will permeate Jack's room and teach him the beauty of truth. Puff away on Mary; serve Jack right."

Rattleton's plates and other necessities were foraged out by the time Gray appeared with the cheese and beer. Not seeing Rattleton, he asked how the others had got in. Hudson explained. "This open ventilator habit of Jack's" he added, "is worse than rooming on the ground floor. Ned Burleigh and I had enough of that in Freshman year, before we moved up here. Our room was a regular darned club. Everybody would drop in there between lectures, chin when we wanted to study, and smoke our tobacco, just because it was too much trouble to go up-stairs. We couldn't leave our window open at night without having some fools crawl in, at any time after midnight, and raise the deuce."

"Yes, I remember. It was very pleasant," remarked Stoughton.

The creation of the rarebit was well under way with the usual accompaniment of advice and altercation over the ingredients, when shouts were heard from under the window, of "Jack, Jack Rat, Oh, Jack!"

Hudson threw up the window and saw Holworthy and Randolph below in a buggy. "Mr. Rattleton is not in, gentlemen," he said, "but come right up and make yourselves at home."

"All right; be with you in a moment, as soon as we have taken this trap round to Blake's."

"It is the two society fritterlings," announced Hudson, as he drew in his head. A few minutes later Randolph and Holworthy appeared in their big coats.

"Seems to me you're back from your ball pretty early," observed Gray.

"Hol didn't find the person there he wanted to see, so he soured on the whole thing and dragged me away early," Jack Randolph explained.

"What a whopper," said Holworthy, as he took off his ulster. "It was very stupid, and Jack himself suggested that we should be happier in Cambridge."

"Aha," cried Stoughton, who was stirring the "bunny" with a master hand. "Very nice. Two gentlemen in faultless evening attire. They'll do for the waiters. Here, quick, hand up your plates before this thing gets cold."

While they were eating the rarebit, a step was heard in the entry, accompanied by the trotting feet of a dog, and the locked door was tried. Then a familiar voice drawled "What the devil is going on in here?"

"Hullo, Jack," cried Stoughton, "come right in. Don't be bashful."

"Open the door, you arrant burglars," demanded Rattleton. "My keys are on my bureau, or somewhere inside."

"Climb over the transom as I did," Hudson called. "You'll have to turn your back to the company in the performance, but don't mind the awkwardness of the position."

"We'll excuse your back. We have your hair-brushes and the fire shovel already," added Randolph, cheerily.

"Don't be such babies," said Jack, (whenever any of the gang was at a disadvantage, he was apt to age suddenly) "come, let me in."

"Are you sorry you told a naughty fib to-night?" asked Hudson, with his hand on the knob.

"Yes."

"Will you set up the ingredients for a punch?"

"Yes."

"All right then, you may come in," said Hudson, graciously, opening the door.

"How was the play?" inquired Jack, pleasantly, as he went into his bedroom after the wash-basin, the regular understudy for a punch-bowl.

"Enjoyed it immensely, in spite of your wishes for our entertainment," Hudson declared. "We know now your ideal of talent and beauty."

"Don't blame me. That was all Burleigh's rot," protested Jack, apologetically, but with a chuckle. "Why don't you pull him out?"

"That is a good plan," assented Hudson. "Two of you come up and help me capture the elephant. He may resist." A committee of three went up to wait upon Burleigh.

"What is the sense of this meeting as to the temperature of the grog?" asked Rattleton.

"Hot!" promptly moved the two who had driven over from Brookline. The motion was carried, so Jack put the kettle on the fire.

"Speaking of the drama and brother Burleigh," said Holworthy, "do you remember the time, Dick, that we saw the old man suping in that spectacular play in Sophomore year?"

"I'm not likely to forget it," answered Dick. "You fellows remember that show called 'Albrachia,' or some such name, full of red fire and fairies? Hol. and I went in to see it one night, and whom should we discover as leading demon in the grand climax, but the stout Edward. We nearly stood up and cheered,—but we'll make him tell about it to-night."

"Hullo, here is the sylph now!" exclaimed some one, as the committee returned in triumph with Ned in tow.

"The perjured loafer told us he was going to work on his forensic," cried Hudson. "Look at this," pointing to Burleigh, whose generous proportions were swathed in gaudy pajamas.

"I hear you enjoyed the play exceedingly," remarked Burleigh, as he made for the fireplace, and spread his huge form all over the front of it.

"So we did, no thanks to you," answered Gray.

"Any men who are such Athenæum Lotharios as to be decoyed in town by the mere mention of two pretty actresses, deserve to get sold," declared Ned, severely.

"Here, take your toddy and stop your mouth," said Stoughton. "As a penance for your lies, you can give us some reminiscences of your disreputable career on the stage."

After some demurring, Burleigh was persuaded to begin his yarn. The "tea" was made by this time, and enthroned on the student's desk in the centre of the room. With "tod and tobac." the party disposed itself about the room, every one with a view more to ease than grace. Blathers, as usual, chose his master's outstretched legs. Ned Burleigh, with a cigar, stood in front of the fire in his airy raiment, his feet apart, warming his exterior with the genial blaze, and his interior with the genial toddy. Would that we could have those evenings again!

"What do you want me to relate?" asked Burleigh. "The great battle of Philippi?"

"Yes, we would like to hear about that," answered Stoughton, "and also your experience with the Hosts of Darkness."

"That was a very short and painful affair," Ned explained. "I'll tell you that first. You must know, my children, that I was once a godless Sophomore even as other Sophs. You may scarcely believe it now, but I was. Among other follies, I took to 'suping' occasionally. Of course my intentions were purely noble; I wanted to elevate the stage. On one occasion this man Hudson, here, led me to the Boston Theatre, where an elaborate show was being given and 'supes' were in demand. You fellows must remember the play, it was called 'Alboraka, the Wizard.' They wanted only one man for that night, and as I was the handsomer, they chose me. I comforted Steve by promising to share with him the quarter that I expected to earn; I believe on the strength of my promise he bought a seat in the peanut gallery."

"Oh, no, I didn't," interrupted Hudson, "I had a seat right under a box where there was a theatre-party of Mrs. Mayflor Tremont's, with a lot of girls I knew. I was thundering glad I wasn't on the stage, and had more than half a mind to point you out to them."

"You wouldn't have troubled me at all," answered Ned. "That is where we unknown woolly Westerners get the drop on the Boston men, and you dudes who go in for Boston society. However, to go on with this confession, I was appointed leader of the Hosts of Darkness. I don't know why I was singled out for this distinction, unless it was on account of my superb figure."

"That was it," corroborated Stoughton. "You did look stunning in those red tights, even more fetching than you are now in those pajamas."

"The part was not a difficult one, but very important," Burleigh continued. "I had to look fierce, and bear aloft a huge red and gold affair. This was referred to once or twice as 'yon gonfalon of Diabolus,' so I suppose that's what it was. I only had to go on the stage twice. In the last scene, where the Wizard got thrown down, there was a high bridge at the back of the stage. It was steep on the sides, shaped a good deal like the Chinese bridge in a blue willow-ware plate; don't you remember? I had to hold this bridge for the Wizard at the head of my minions, and was doing it with dignity and grace. My instructions were to stay there until the Queen of the Fairies should point at me and say 'Avaunt, vile blood-fiends, to the shades below'; then to retire with signs of rage and terror, while the Hosts of Light came up the other side of the bridge. Now I was watching and listening to the Queen carefully, and I am sure she never pointed at me, or opened her head about 'avaunting.' I think myself that my fatal beauty in the red tights had made an impression on her, and she didn't want me to leave. She probably couldn't find it in her heart to call me a blood-fiend; at any rate there was some hitch, for the Hosts of Light began coming up the bridge ahead of time. Of course, I wasn't going to avaunt without orders, so I stood there waiting for my cue. The leading angel called me a most vile name, in an anxious undertone, and poked his spear violently in the pit of my stomach. He hurt me like the devil, so I promptly smashed him on the head with the Gonfalon of Diabolus, and bowled him down among the advancing Hosts of Light, to their utter confusion. The next minute something lit on the back of my neck, and that is all I know. I believe it was a sandbag hove from the wings, and that I was dragged out by the heels."

"You were, you were," Holworthy shouted at the recollection, "but it was done so quickly that half of the audience didn't see it."

"When I came to," Ned went on, "I was on my face behind the scenes, with four or five able-bodied Irishmen sitting on my back. The 'super' captain was going to turn me over to the cop; but I begged pardon all round, paid for the leading angel's broken head, and finally managed to smooth things over."

"They are pretty careful how they take amateur supes at any of the theatres now. Nothing like the battle of Philippi can ever occur again," said Rattleton, regretfully.

"Give us that, Ned," said Stoughton; "I guess some of these fellows have never heard an accurate account by one of the heroes."

"That was truly the grandest suping event in history," said Burleigh, refilling his glass, and returning to his position by the fire. "It was just after that new theatre was opened, way down there on Washington Street. It was a cheap shrine, but I tell you, now, Melpomene was right in it. The owners had no idea of making it a low-down variety hall, not much. They were going to give high-class performances and educate the masses. One of the first things they had there was a Shakespearean revival, run by a peripatetic star named Riley. The fellows used to go in and supe all the time. They rather liked to have Harvard men for two reasons: first, because it was cheap, and, in the second place, I think Riley's manager rather expected us to bring all our friends and relatives there to see us act, and give the place a boom.

"The first night of Julius Cæsar came on Jim de Laye's twenty-first birthday, and he was going to give a dinner, after which we intended to fill a box at the show and give Cæsar a good send-off. I went in town to get the box, and at the office I heard the manager, or some official, complaining about lack of supes. I made inquiries, and it ended in my contracting to furnish him with ten good men and true for that evening at reasonable rates. He gave me as a bonus a few tickets for any of my family or 'lady friends.' It showed how green he was to take ten of 'de Ha'vards' at once. They never would have done that anywhere else in town.

"The other chaps all fell in with the arrangement, and we had the dinner at Parker's early. A man does not get to be twenty-one years old every day in the year, so we took pains to see that Jim did it properly.

"That lazy goat on the sofa there (pointing to Rattleton) had not been seen in Cambridge that afternoon, and knew nothing about the suping arrangement. Of course, he was late to dinner, as usual, and of course, as usual, he turned up with that d——d dog of his. After dinner, when we adjourned to the theatre, we wanted him to leave Blathers behind at Parker's, but he insisted on taking the pup along, wrapped in his overcoat. He assured us that Blathers would keep perfectly quiet, and no one would ever know he was there. We might have known better, but I suppose we were in a yielding mood. De Laye and two or three others brought bottles of fizz in their overcoats. They said it was always well to propitiate the natives, and thought such provisions might be popular with the Thespians. Jim swore he'd make noble Romans of every man of 'em. We got there early, and Blathers was tied up and hidden away under Jack's coat in a corner of the dressing-room. In the performance we all did our parts like little men. Rome was proud of her citizens that day. As for our mob-work, that showed positive genius."

"How Marc Antony's speech over the body did go!" chuckled Rattleton from the sofa.

"The stage-manager was delighted and complimented us, and so did Riley himself. Jack Rat had made friends with Riley very early in the game. He had invited him out to lunch in Cambridge, and had hinted at getting him to coach the Pudding show. Moreover, Jack and I had steered several large parties in to Riley's performances, and Riley knew it. It was a lucky thing for us, as it turned out, that he and Jack had got so chummy.

"All went well until the battle scene. They had put us all on the same side; in fact, we constituted the entire army of Brutus—that was another evidence of greenness in the management. The battle had been raging mildly for some time. We had marched and counter-marched, and had been reviewed and exhorted two or three times, without even getting a glimpse of the enemy. At last it came to the scene where Brutus' aggregation gets driven across the stage by Antony's offering a desperate resistance. Cassius had been killed, young Cato was going to be captured, and everything was going to the bow-wows. While we were standing in the wings along with Antony's army, waiting to go on, Jim de Laye said, 'Hang it, let's put a little real good acting into this thing; these stage scraps are too woodeny.' Of course I did my best to restrain this idea among my companions, but it became popular at once in spite of anything I could say. I must confess I always had rather a desire myself to see that oily-mouthed peep of a Marc Antony well thrashed. The next minute we had to go across the back of the stage, hotly contesting every inch of the way with our trusty wooden brands, two up and two down. About half way over, that crazy Jim de Laye opened the ball by smiting his man hip and thigh and other parts, in the most life-like manner. The other supe hit back in just anger, and there was an instant rally of the Brutus forces. My man was a little fellow, and I did him up in time to see an entirely new feature introduced in the scene. Marc Antony himself suddenly appeared, hard pressed by a togaed citizen. The way he got there was this—correct me, Jack, if I make any mistake in this part of the history. Blathers, as I told you, had been left curled up under a coat in the dressing-room. Some of the employees had found him there, however, untied him, and started in to play with him. Mr. Blathers, finding himself in strange company, slipped away from them and went looking for his master. Just as the battle scene began, he arrived at the wings, where Marc Antony was waiting to go on. Antonius was in very bad humor about something. He asked in fluent Latin, 'What the —— that dog was doing there?' and made a kick at Blathers. I guess Blathers was in much the same mood, for he turned around and effected a prompt connection with the calf of Marc Antony's leg. He was a disappointed dog; he got his mouth full of horsehair. Antony wasn't touched, and let Blathers have it with the other foot.

"Now, Jack had not been assigned to the army, and was off duty in that scene. He was standing in the wings in Roman citizen's clothes, trying to flirt with the vestal virgins.

"Hold on," interrupted Jack, "you told me to correct any mistake. That's one."

"Well, perhaps they were not. You know more about that than I do," admitted Ned. "Any way, he turned around just in time to see his faithful hound doing somersaults from Marc Antony's toe. I'll do Jack the justice to say that he is generally slow to wrath—he is too lazy—but when that ugly pup of his is concerned, he loses his head.

"He not only lost his head that time, but tried to knock off Marc Antony's too. Marc went, staggering out into the field of battle, and Jack, the fool, followed him up. As I said, the battle had opened in earnest all along the line when this happened, and the house was already on it's feet. It was a good, warm house. It was mainly from Sou' Boston, and had taken about thirty-five seconds to get on to the magnificent realism of the scene. It went wild with delight at this addition to the affair. Blathers rallied and flew out on the stage to the support of Jack's charge. This time he tore all the padding off Marc's legs, amid the enthusiastic plaudits of the audience.

"The stage-manager yelled for the policeman, and went tearing about after him. 'Colonel' Dixey, of Kentucky, who was also off duty in this scene, had enticed the cop into a distant corner, along with the departed Cæsar and a bottle of fizz. J. Cæsar was a tragedian who would have been dear to the heart of a Puck artist. He was a thirsty soul with a radiant nose and a beery eye. Shortly after his death he had attached himself to Colonel Dixey and his overcoat, and the Colonel had warmly requited his affection. In fact, Dixey devoted two whole bottles to the good work, and at the end of the fourth act Cæsar had had some difficulty in doing his own ghost. He was free after that, and during this last act, he and the Colonel had let in the blue-coat, and retired into a secluded nook among the scenery. The Colonel had filled Cæsar up to the brim, and had got the law pretty well zigged, too, when the manager brought the news of battle. All three rushed to the front, the cop, of course, getting there last. The conflict was at its height, when dead Cæsar appeared, boiling drunk, and took sides with inspiring shouts against his own avengers. Dixey pitched in too, and these reinforcements turned the tide at once. Brutus was victorious at all points. We rushed Marc Antony and his gang clear off the field, and destroyed the flying remnants behind the wings. The audience fairly howled and encored wildly.

"The cop was utterly useless, he grabbed the small man that I had floored in the beginning of the row, clubbed him a little, and hung on to him like grim death. The manager was crazy, and told him to send for a hurry-up wagon, and run us all in. We showed the law great respect, though, after the shindy was over; called him sergeant and offered to support him in maintaining the peace. He didn't know exactly who was responsible, so he contented himself with shaking the little man some more, and declaring that he could 'attend to this business alone, and didn't want no help, see?' Marc Antony wanted the blood of Jack and Blathers, but Riley, the star, who played Brutus, was inclined to think that Antony was to blame for the whole thing. You see Antony had got more applause than Brutus all through. His great speech had had a particular success, probably due to our able presentation of the populace. Riley sat on Marc first, and then they both went for Cæsar, who was maudlin in the corner. He had got a helmet on, wrong side before, and was begging us with tears in his eyes to go 'once more into the breach, dear friends, or close the wall with our English dead.' When Brutus cursed him he drew himself up and hiccoughed, 'Et tu, Brute,—hic—well—hic you seen me at Philippi anyhow.'

"Riley went back on the stage and made a little speech, and the audience cheered him to the echo. Then the play went on, Brutus died like a man, and all the principals, including J. Cæsar and Blathers, were called before the curtain. Jack made it up with Marc Antony, and after the show we consoled the vanquished army with what was left of the champagne. Most of the supes were Irish, anyway, and had enjoyed the pleasantry."

It was ten o'clock and time for John Stuart Mill to give place to Mary Jane, so Stoughton threw the former into an arm-chair and took the latter from the mantel-piece. He filled and lighted her affectionately, and the content of the evening pipe came upon him. Then he bethought him of beer and pleasant converse, and strolled around to the Pudding in pursuit thereof.

There he found the usual ten o'clock "resting convention" in session beneath its blue cloud of nicotine. The "earnest resters," as Burleigh termed them, were stretched about in various attitudes, more of laziness than repose. They were just then engaged in the popular pastime of blackguarding the last number of the Lampoon for the benefit of Hudson, one of the editors.

"Hullo, Dick," remarked that gentleman, glad to change the subject as Stoughton entered, "we knew you were coming; smelt Mary Jane as soon as you turned the corner."

"Did you, really," replied Stoughton, making room for himself on the sofa by removing Rattleton's legs to a neighboring chair, and spilling the dog Blathers on the floor. "What was that chum of yours doing in the building last night? Were you also engaged in the unseemly disturbance?"

"No," answered Hudson, "I had nothing to do with it. I decline all responsibility for Edward Burleigh. I am not my room-mate's keeper."

"I heard him carolling on the stairs at an hour when singing should be left to the little birds. He hammered on my door for a while, but I knew enough not to get up. I wonder he didn't raise the proctor. He shouted, through my key-hole, something about the war being over."

"Yes," said Hudson, "that was what he told me when he woke me up by sitting on my chest. He was going to carry the good news all through the Yard, but I persuaded him to go to bed and wait until morning."

"Where had he been?"

"Well, you see, Jack Randolph carried him off yesterday evening to a meeting of the Southern Club, as an invited guest, to span the bloody chasm with him. They spanned it a good many times there, I guess, and then as it was a beautiful moonlight night and perfect sleighing, they decided that the bloody chasm ought to be spanned in Brookline and other neighboring towns. So they got a cutter, and must have conducted spanning operations on a wide scale all over the country, for they didn't get back until dawn. George Smith, the policeman, says he saw them sitting on the steps of Harvard Hall, singing 'John Brown's Body' and 'Dixie,' and hymns of peace while the sun rose."

"I deny the aspersion on the Southern Club," exclaimed 'Colonel' Dixey, from the other end of the long sofa. "I was present at the meeting, and we had nothing to induce sunrise hymns. I don't know what Jack and Ned did afterwards, but they didn't get it at the Southern Club."

This somewhat veiled assertion raised an incredulous chorus: "Oh, Dixey, may you be forgiven." "Come, come, Colonel, do you mean to persuade us that an organization containing at least three members from Kentucky is run on a cold-water basis?" "Where is the glory of your old commonwealth?" "Bet the meeting was full of rum—rum and rebellion! Don't deny it, Colonel." "Drink and treason!"

"Neither, sir, neither," replied Dixey to this chaff. "I grieve to hear such narrow-minded accusations. Prexy was there and made a speech.—Oh, Holworthy! You know that man we saw yesterday in the Transept of Memorial? He was at the Southern Club with Prexy."

"Oh, yes," said Holworthy, "who was he?"

"A grad. from Georgia. I have forgotten his name."

"I thought he was a grad., and not a stranger, for he didn't have a guide book, and didn't ask us to show him the "campus." Had he been a soldier?"

"Didn't say. If so, he was probably a Confed."

"Well, he looked like an interesting old cock anyway," said Holworthy to the others. "He was standing before one of the tablets with his hat off. Somehow, when we saw him, our own hats felt so uncomfortable that we took them off, too, as we passed through."

"Holly made up all sorts of poetry about him," added Dixey.

"No, I didn't; but I do think he did the right thing in uncovering."

"Of course he did," said Ernest Gray, emphatically. "No man ought to keep his hat on in that transept."

"Oh, now you've done it, Hol," groaned Stoughton. "You have started the 'Only Serious.'"

"We get too careless going back and forth in it every day," continued Gray. "We don't fully appreciate it, or we forget what it means."

"Forget what it means! Great Scott, Ernest, have you never heard a Class Day oration or poem? What would our inspired youths do without the poor, hard-worked old transept? How did they ever get inspired before it was built? Don't we have our hearts fired all up at least once a year on that subject?"

"Except those of us who may have been previously fired by the Dean," put in Rattleton, with a contemplative sigh over eminent possibilities.

"Well, it is a pity then that the Class Day conflagration doesn't last a little longer. I don't believe in keeping sentiment for special occasions. It would be better for all hands to preserve a little of it throughout the year, and in this place, of all others, I should think at least a little reverence for the past might be kept alive. But one might suppose that there was no such thing as reverence at Harvard nowadays."

"Hooray!" "Hear, hear!" "Go it, old man!" "Good for the Only Serious!" "Pegasus in a canter!"

"That's right," answered Gray warmly, to this burst of invidious encouragement. "Laugh at anything that is serious or the least approach to feeling; it is the fashion."

"Brought on by over-doses of gush," remarked Stoughton, knocking the ashes contemptuously out of Mary Jane.

"Of course, there is a lot of twaddle talked about such things," answered Gray, "and I acknowledge that exaggeration tends to cheapen patriotism, but the existence of a lot of tinsel in the world doesn't make gold less valuable, does it?"

"Quite true," assented Hudson, "and because Dick Stoughton smokes such a pipe as Mary Jane, there is no reason why we should all give up tobacco. That is a better simile than yours."

"Well, it is a good thing that Harvard men have not always been so afraid of appearing in earnest," growled Gray. "I don't believe there was so much brilliant wit wasted when men were leaving college every day to join their regiments. I wish I had been here then."

"So do I," drawled Rattleton; "what a bully excuse a fellow would have had for not getting his degree."

"What an excitement there must have been," went on Gray, without noticing the interruption. "Just think of being cheered out of the Yard when you left for the war, and then perhaps distinguishing yourself, and coming back to Class Day with your arm in a sling."

"Just think of coming back in a pine-box," added Hudson, graphically.

"Well, suppose you did? You have got to die some time, and your name would have been put on a tablet in memorial."

"Yes, but you wouldn't have been tickled by seeing it there," said the irritating Stoughton. "Half your patriotism is vanity, Ernest, you shallow theatrical poser."

"It would do you men good to read the Memorial Biographies," Gray continued, now thoroughly aroused, and paying no attention to the side remarks. "They ought to be part of the prescribed work for a degree."

"Yes, but as Hudson says, you couldn't do that if you were a biographee," reasoned Dane Austin, the law-school man, taking a hand in the baiting.

"It would be perfectly disgusting to hear you fellows talk this way," Gray declared, "if one didn't know that it was all affectation. I am not sure that that fact does not make it worse. You all really feel just as I do, but you are afraid to say so."

"Another appalling case of Harvard indifference," observed Stoughton. "The modern dilettante has no noble desire for red war."

"He likes to make people believe that he has no noble desire for anything, and he has a morbid fear of being a hypocrite. As a matter of fact, you are all of you the worst kind of hypocrites, for you try to appear worse than you are."

"Oh, dear, no," Rattleton protested, lazily, "that would be too hard work for any of this crowd—except me."

"A war would be a good thing to stir you up. I almost wish the war times would come again," exclaimed Gray, hotly.

"Now you are getting right down to work," laughed Hudson. "What a rise we are getting out of our earnest young man to-night."

"You let your feelings get away with you, Gray," added Holworthy. "I don't believe it was all glory and enthusiasm in those days. You forget there was another side to it. For instance, Jack Randolph's governor was not cheered out of the Yard when he left for the war."

"Yes, there was another side to it," came a voice from the other end of the room, and a big arm-chair, that had been facing the fire with its back to the knot of men, was pushed around so as show its occupant. He was evidently one of that wide class known to the undergraduate as the "Old Grads." An old grad. attains his title as soon as he ceases to be a very young grad.; there is no transition degree. In this case he seemed about middle aged, perhaps fifty, with hair turning gray, and a rather deeply marked brown face. The latter was just then a little flushed, and had the expression often seen on a face that has just been looking a long time into a fire and a long way through it.

The lounging students started a little at this sudden interruption, and stirred as young men do on finding themselves suddenly in the presence of an older one. Rattleton took his long legs down from their supporting chair, Hudson pushed his hat back from his nose to its proper place, Dixey took his hands out of his pockets and sat up straight, while Dick Stoughton paused in the act of relighting Mary Jane, and when the match burnt his fingers forbore to swear. As the cause of the disturbance rose and came towards them they stood up. Hollis Holworthy showed signs of positive uneasiness. He turned bright red in the face, as he recognized the man whom he had just described as "an interesting old cock."

"I—I beg your pardon, sir," he began, "I had no idea——"

"That the old cock was present?" laughed the older man. "I assure you, my boy, that I was not in the least offended, and even had I cause for offence, I deserved it. Your remark was a retribution, a striking repetition of history. I remember once asking Holworthy of '61 who the bully old boy in the beaver hat was, and the bully old boy proved to be Holworthy '32. Thirty years are like a spy-glass—your views depend upon the end through which you look."