Chapter II: Preface (2)

Holworthy had accepted an invitation to dine at the Tremonts' in Boston. There was nothing remarkable about that; but so had Jack Rattleton, and that _was_ remarkable. He had done so chiefly on Holworthy's account. He rarely went anywhere in Boston society, as he held that to do so was a waste of precious time given to him for a college education. He could employ his evenings much better in Cambridge in his study, with a select party, or in one of the clubs. True, he often went over the bridge; but that, as he said, was always with some earnest purpose, such as a study of the drama at the Howard Athenaeum, or to attend a benefit of Prof. Murphy or some other revered instructor. He never frittered away his moments in the vapidity of a polite ballroom. Dinners he especially abhorred (except, of course, serious masculine dinners); chiefly because dinner engagements had to be kept, and worse, kept punctually. For that reason they were, in Jack's estimation, as bad as lectures to a man on probation. He had decided to bind himself to this dinner, however, because he knew the Tremonts very well, and happened to know they were going to invite Holworthy, and also happened to know that some one else was going to be thereabout whom Holworthy did not like to be chaffed. He foresaw a possible opportunity of "seeing Hol do the devoted and breaking him up"; so for this benevolent purpose he determined to sacrifice himself.

Now, Holworthy knew naught of this, and when Rattleton casually mentioned to him that he (Jack) had been bidden to a dinner at the Tremonts', and asked him for the most approved form for a lying regret, he used all his powers of persuasion to make Rattleton accept. He preached a sermon on the evil effects of Jack's Bohemian ways and neglected opportunities. He said he was going to that same dinner and would bring Jack back in a cab. Finally, after much objection, and after getting as many bribes out of his mentor as possible, Rattleton agreed to go, and also agreed to do his best not to be late.

On this latter point Hollis spent half an hour. He insisted, and impressed upon Jack in every way, that a man could do nothing more outrageous than to keep his hostess waiting for him for dinner. Holworthy, it may be observed, had been brought up with old-fashioned ideas of good breeding. His father had taught him never to fail, or be late at a dinner or a duel, if once engaged for either. He cautioned Rattleton not to put his faith in excuses, for they were always weak and as naught. "Everybody," said he, "knows you are lying, and you know that they know you are lying, and they know that you know that they know you are lying."

"That's so," acknowledged Jack, with a melancholy shake of his head. "At one time, when I went in for these vanities, I used to have some pretty good excuses, but they are all played out now. I have broken down every cab in Cambridge, given every horse the blind staggers, and ruined the reputation for sobriety of every driver. I have broken my own leg once or twice, and limped painfully into the room; that was very effective, until I once favored the wrong leg. The electric cars were a great help when they first came in, but I have long since dislocated every trolly on the line."

"Well, above all," said Holworthy, "if you _should_ happen to be late, don't try that worn out chestnut about the drawbridge being open, as I heard a poor young Freshman do the other night, with a happy confidence."

"Do you take _me_ for a Freshman?" responded Jack, indignantly. "At the first dinner I went to when I first came up, I started to use the drawbridge, and the old grad. with whom I was dining took the words out of my mouth and then laughed at me."

"The best thing for you to do," suggested Hollis, as his final advice, "is to get a chain and make yourself fast to your bedstead from now until the evening of the dinner. I'll come round and unchain you when it is time to dress. At any rate, I shall endeavor to keep you in sight all that day." All of which Rattleton took humbly, and promised to do his best.

But on the afternoon of the appointed day Jack was not to be found. Holworthy hunted in vain for him at all his usual haunts, and in the evening began dressing himself with many misgivings. While he was still in his room, his chum Charles Rivers came in from the afternoon's work in the University boat. Holworthy complained to him of the way in which the man Rattleton was turning his hair gray.

"Looking for Lazy Jack, are you?" laughed Rivers, reassuringly; "well, he was in a four-oar above the Brighton Abattoir not very long ago. I couldn't see him, because I had to keep my eyes in the boat, but I could hear him objurgating Steve Hudson for hitting up the stroke. We passed them as we were pulling back from Watertown. It wasn't half an hour ago."

Holworthy made a short remark about Rattleton that has nothing to do with the story. "I have only just time to get into the Tremonts' now," said he, as he threw on his cloak, "but I will stop at the shiftless beggar's room before I go in. He may possibly have got back and dressed."

He hurried along Harvard Street, and on the corner ran into a lot of men coming up from the river. Sauntering along in their flannels, perfectly happy after the glorious exercise and bath, he saw Hudson, Randolph, Stoughton,--and the long form of Mr. Rattleton, quite as usual, hands in his pockets, head thrown back, a smile on his face, content in his soul, and nothing on his mind. There was a sudden change in his aspect, however, when he caught sight of Holworthy's silk hat and white tie. He stopped, aghast, with a "By Jove!" and then, "Oh, the devil!"

"Yes," exclaimed Holworthy, hotly, "and that is just where you will go some day from sheer carelessness. That is the one appointment you'll keep,--though, I believe, you will be late for your own funeral."

"Don't wait for me, old man. I'll be there as soon as I can," answered Jack, ambiguously.

"Wait for you!" Hollis cried, "I wash my hands of you! If you choose to disgrace yourself, it is none of my business. As it is now, I may be late myself," and he boarded a car for Boston.

Now it was so that Holworthy did not know the Tremonts. They were old friends of his family, and he ought to have called on them when he first came to college; but he had not, and they had been abroad since his Freshman year. He was not even perfectly certain of where they lived, and he had forgotten, in his hurry on leaving his room, to look at the address on the invitation! He thought of this fact when he was over the bridge and well into Boston. However, he pretty clearly remembered having sent his acceptance to 142 Marconwealth Street. It was either 142 or 242; but to make sure he decided to look it up in a Blue Book. He, therefore, got out at Park Square and went into a druggist's, to consult the little directory.

He first looked up 142 Marconwealth Street, and found the name of Jones. Then he looked for 242, 342, 442,--he felt there was a 42 in the combination somehow,--but all were vacant of Tremonts. He tried the 42's of other streets, but in vain. Then, in desperation, he ran down the whole list of Tremonts. Reader, dost thou know aught of the ancient town of Boston? If not, look some time into a Boston Blue Book, open anywhere, and see what Holworthy saw. In Boston, when they want to describe a particularly luxuriant forest, they say that its leaves are as the Tremonts. Hollis was not even sure of the first name of his intended host; he thought it was Mayflor. There were three Mayflor Tremonts on Marconwealth Street, one at each end and one in the middle. Of other Tremonts on that street there were fourteen.

The cold sweat stood on Holworthy's brow in the most approved style. It was already half past seven, the hour of dinner, for he had spent several minutes in his Blue Book research. Only one plan occurred to him. He bought the book at an extravagant price and jumped into a cab, determined to hunt down that dinner if he had to go to every Tremont in Boston. He began with the Mayflor Tremonts. When the servant answered the bell, he would ask if there was a dinner-party going on in that house. He was not sure whether he was taken for a lunatic or a society reporter, but did not care which. None of the Mayflor Tremonts were giving dinners on that evening. Then he began at one end of Marconwealth Street, and tried every Tremont in order.

All this time the minutes were joining the past eternity, and he, Hollis Holworthy, was getting later and later for dinner. At the sixth house, however, as a maid opened the door, he heard the sounds of gentle revelry and small talk, and his heart leaped for joy. The maid said, "Yes, we have a party here to-night." He rushed back and paid for his cab, not stopping for the paltry change due him, amounting to half that he gave. He left his coat and hat in the hall to save time and, without asking further questions, strode by the maid into the dining-room. He was twenty-five minutes late, and glad they had not waited for him.

Going up to the hostess, he began, "Mrs. Tremont, I can't tell you how mortified--" the table was filled! There was no vacant chair! Then he noticed that the hostess was looking a little blank, though smiling and polite. "I beg your pardon," he said, as his heart sank, "have I made some awful mistake? My name is Holworthy; did you not invite me to dinner this evening, or have I got the wrong house?--or the wrong night?"

"I am afraid you _have_ made a mistake, Mr. Holworthy," replied the lady, "and I think it must be in the house."

"Well, can you tell me," asked the blushing and desperate youth, trying to keep a groan out of his question, "whether you happen to know of any other Mrs. Tremont who is giving a dinner to-night? I have lost the address, and I am dinnerless in the streets of Boston."

The hostess laughed a little at Holworthy's despair, but relieved him by saying that her cousin, Mrs. Mayflor Tremont, had said something that day about a dinner.

"But I have been to the houses of three Mrs. Mayflor Tremonts on this street," protested poor Hollis. "Is there another one?"

"Why, Hol," spoke up Ernest Gray, an intimate friend, who was present to Holworthy's great comfort, "that is where Jack Rattleton told me that you and he were going--the Mayflor Tremont's, 142 Marconwealth Street."

"That is just what I thought," said Holworthy, "but the Blue Book gives one Jones at 142."

"Oh!" explained Mrs. Tremont, "they have only just moved in, and their name has not been changed in the Blue Book."

"Then _that_ was my ruin," Hollis exclaimed. "Thank you very much, indeed. I hope you will forgive me for making such a scene," and he retreated with as much dignity and haste as could be combined. He was too much relieved to mind Gray's remark, "That is one on you, Hol," or the laugh that he heard as he got to the front door.

His cab had only moved to the corner, and he hailed it again. The driver repaid his recent generosity by getting him to 142 in less than three minutes.

Let us now see how it fared with Jack, the grasshopper. At the moment when Holworthy took the car in Harvard Square, there was seen a rare phenomenon of nature;--Rattleton showed acute animation. He went up Harvard Street with two leaps to a block. Riley's cab, as usual, was standing at the corner of Holyoke Street, and as Jack dashed by, he yelled for Riley. The latter came tumbling out of Foster's, and, in forty-three seconds and two fifths, had his chariot at the door of Rattleton's staircase. Both Riley and his horse are as well drilled to emergencies as are the men and steeds of a fire-engine. Jack reached his room in record time, and only stopped to wash his face and hands. He grabbed his evening clothes and shoes, a "boiled" shirt and tie, and was in the cab almost as soon as it got to the door.

"Riley," said he, "get me to 142 Marconwealth Street before Mr. Holworthy, and I'll try and pay what I owe you this week. It is a matter of life and death, and I expect you this day to do your duty. Don't be beaten by an electric car."

The latter part of this exhortation had its effect. Riley follows the Golden Rule and never duns anybody, but his weak spots are his professional pride and his sporting blood. Touch him there, and you will travel in his cab as in the car of Phoebus. He has never lost the day when it was possible for man and horse to save it. Ned Burleigh used to say that he would back Riley's nag against Salvator, provided the former should have behind him the cab, Riley, and a load. On this particular occasion he fully maintained his reputation.

While rushing towards Boston, Rattleton proceeded to dress. He at first complimented himself on not having forgotten anything; but, when he came to his shirt, behold, there were no studs! He had been wearing a soft cheviot, and had only a collar button. The absence of sleeve buttons would probably not be noticed, but he could not go to dinner with a studless chest. For a minute he thought the game was up, wrecked by such a little thing. Then an inspiration came to him. With his knife he cut three little pearl buttons out of his under-shirt, leaving a piece attached to each button. These he pushed through his shirt, and they were held in place by the pieces of flannel at their backs. It had always been suspected by his friends that Jack Rattleton really had brains, though he never made the exertion to use them. It had even been said that some time in an emergency he might show positive genius. He looked at those improvised studs with satisfaction, as he reasoned to himself that they would be taken for imitation buttons and, therefore, go unnoticed. If they should be recognized as real, that would be all the better; it would look like a new fashion, and one of most "swagger" simplicity. He tied his cravat all right by feeling; but he had not thought of a hair-brush, and his hair was all damp and on end after his shower-bath at the boat-house. This did not trouble him, however, as he was sure of finding a brush at the Tremonts, in the room where the men would leave their coats.

He had hardly finished this flying toilet when he arrived at the house, not two minutes late. He instructed Riley to come back at ten, and that the return trip would be "on Mr. Holworthy." In the dressing-room there were hair-brushes, as he had expected, and he went down to the drawing-room in faultless order, feeling that he had made a great discovery. Undoubtedly a cab was just the place for a hurried man of business, like himself, to dress.

He called the attention of his hostess to his punctuality, and assured her that such a thing in him was a sign of the greatest devotion. "You see," said he, "when I am late, everyone says, 'Oh, it is only that shiftless Jack Rattleton,' and when I am on time, I want the credit for it. Now it is nothing particularly praiseworthy for a man like Holworthy to be on time. If he should ever slip up, it might well be put down as an insult, because he never forgets or dawdles. Some day his good reputation will be the ruin of him. I think my system is the better." After which airy persiflage, Rattleton noticed that Holworthy was not in the room; and ten minutes later, when the latter was still absent, he began to wish he had let airy persiflage alone. Everybody else had arrived. Five minutes more went by, and when twenty minutes were gone and no Holworthy, Jack went to Mrs. Tremont and told her how Hollis had left Cambridge in plenty of time, and, in fact, had refused to wait for him. "Something must have happened to him," he said, rather anxiously, "and I am prepared to back up as strictly true any excuse he may offer, for I can swear he left Cambridge more than an hour ago, and was coming right here."

"No accident to himself, I hope," replied Mrs. Tremont. "At any rate, I think we had better go in, as I am sure Mr. Holworthy will feel more comfortable if we do not wait for him."

So in they went, Rattleton taking her whom Holworthy should have taken, for Jack was one of two extra men.

And Hollis, where was he? Suffering in the cab.

Ten minutes later, as he went up the stoop of 142, an insidious policy stole into Holworthy's brain. He had lost the invitation and mistaken the number of the house,--why should he not have mistaken instead the hour of dinner? Was that not better than to be ignorant of the address of his hostess, upon whom he ought to have called long before this? He was in good time for an eight o'clock dinner, and most dinners are at eight nowadays. Then, too, Rattleton would be just about half an hour late, and would probably be utterly unconcerned about it, and offer no excuses. That would lend color to a suspicion that Mrs. Tremont had herself made the mistake, in writing some of the invitations. He would not need to tell any actual untruth--to say distinctly that he thought dinner was at eight. He need only imply it, and apologize for his evident mistake. It would be a pretty poor plea for a very bad crime, but at any rate it was a more polite explanation than the real one, and less ridiculous. Oh, Hollis Holworthy, that thou shouldst thus forget the _veritas_, the watchword of thine Alma Mater!

In the dressing-room was a straw hat with a colored ribbon. "Hullo," he surmised, "Jack is here. Wonder if the rest of his outfit corresponds, and he has come in his blazer." As he went into the dining-room, his eye first lighted on that interesting person whom Mr. Davis has capitally termed "A Girl He Knew." On her right was Rattleton, on her left a vacant chair. She must have had to go in alone!

With a look of gentle surprise and concern, that, he flattered himself, was rather well done, he went up and saluted Mrs. Tremont.

"Have I been mistaken," he asked, "in thinking that dinner was at eight o'clock, or has my watch betrayed me?" There was no fib in this and what could be more diplomatic?

Mrs. Tremont stood it for a second, then she happened to catch sight of Rattleton's face. It was too much for her, and she burst out laughing. After all, it was the best thing to do.

"Now, Mr. Holworthy, tell us what really happened, and we will believe and forgive you. Jack, here, has testified to the time of your departure from Cambridge, and you must fill in the interim somehow."

Then Hollis made a clean breast of the whole thing, and made the tale of his sufferings as moving as possible, finishing with a request for some dust to put on his head. He was so humble that even Rattleton was sorry for him; but the memory of many of Holworthy's lectures came to Jack and he could not resist suggesting to Mrs. Tremont, as Hollis took his seat, that as Holly's blood had run so cold she ought to have some soup warmed up for him.

That evening, on the way back to Cambridge in the cab, was spent one of the pleasantest half hours of Rattleton's life. He told Holworthy how a man could do nothing more outrageous than to keep his hostess waiting for dinner. He said he had a very good chain that he used for his dog Blathers, but which he could lend Hollis. He warned him some day that he would surely go to the devil by his careless habits. "Above all," said he, "never put your faith in excuses. Everybody knows you are lying, and even if you don't know that they know, etc., you sometimes find out."

Holworthy smoked his cigar vigorously without saying a word in reply. When they arrived at their club in Cambridge he asked, resignedly, "Well, what do you want for supper?"

"I know I ought to take champagne," answered Jack, graciously, "but as you are so very humble and I don't really want any more fizz, I will let you off with a rarebit and beer. But don't you ever jump on me again."

THE PLOT AGAINST BULLAM.

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 "Pere 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.

THE DOG BLATHERS.

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.

A HOWARD AND HARVARD EVENING.