Kathleen | Page 3

the 'varsity dramatic society for his brilliant impersonations. The Goblin said nothing as he sipped his coffee and gazed at the fire.
"There you go again, Falstaff!" exclaimed Forbes to Carter, as he unlocked a corner cupboard and drew out a bottle of port. "The universal enthusiast! I believe you'll be enthusiastic about the examiners that plough you!"
"What, Falstaff get ploughed?" said a vast and rather handsome newcomer, flinging open the door without knocking. "I think he's down for a ruddy First!" This was Douglas Whitney, of Balliol.
Carter's only answer to both these remarks was to drain a glass of the port which Forbes was decanting.
"I say, Priapus, what vile port!" he said. "Is this some of the vintage you crocked poor old Hinton with?"
"Any port in a storm, Falstaff," said the Goblin, mildly.
As Forbes was pouring out the coffee loud shouts of "Minters!" greeted the next arrival. This was Johnny Blair of Tennessee and Trinity, the only American among the Scorpions. Blair was a Rhodes Scholar whose dulcet Southern drawl and quaint modes of speech were a constant delight to his English comrades. His great popularity in his own college was begun by his introduction of mint julep, which had given him his nickname.
"Hello, Minters!" cried Forbes. "What cheer?"
"Large tabling and belly cheer," said Blair, quoting his favourite Elizabethan author.
By the time Forbes had poured out eight cups of coffee and as many glasses of wine, Keith, Graham, and Twiston had come in, making the full gathering. There was much laughing and banter as the men stood round the table or by the fire, lighting pipes and cigarettes, and helping themselves to fruit and cake. Finally, when everyone was settled in a semicircle round the fire, Forbes hammered his coffee cup with a spoon. According to the custom of the society the host of the evening always acted as chairman.
"The meeting will please come to order," said Forbes. "Brother Scorpions, what is your pleasure? Has the secretary anything to report?"
The gatherings of the Scorpions were pleasingly devoid of formality, and untrammeled by parliamentary conventions. There were no minutes, and the only officer was a secretary who sent out postal cards each week, reminding the members of the time and place of the next meeting.
King, puffing happily at a large pipe, declared that no official business required attention.
"Then I call upon Falstaff for his delightful paper on Rabelais," said Forbes.
A small electric reading lamp was propped behind Carter's head, and the Scorpions disposed themselves to listen. Carter pulled an untidy manuscript from his pocket, and after an embarrassed cough, began to read.
The general tenor of an undergraduate essay on Rabelais, intended for the intimacy of a fireside circle, may readily be guessed. The general thesis of the composition was of course to prove that Rabelais was by no means the low-minded old dog of Puritan conception; or, as Carter put it, that he was "not simply a George Moore"; but that his amazing writings bore witness throughout to a high and devoted ethical purpose. It is even conjecturable that Carter may have said _puribus omnia pura_; but if he did so, it was with so droll an accent that his audience laughed again. At all events his reading was punctuated with cheery applause, and at the conclusion the Scorpions renewed their acquaintance with those historic affinities whiskey and soda. Discussion was brisk.
The meditative Goblin then was called upon for his poems; and, after becoming hesitation, unfolded a sheaf of verses. His rhymes were always full of quaint and elvish humour which was very endearing. His ballade with the refrain "When Harry Baillie kept the Tabard Inn," was voted the best of the six he read.
But the event of the evening was to be the serial story, which Forbes had been appointed to begin. A new round of refreshments was distributed, and then the host took his place under the reading lamp.
"This needs a word of explanation," he said. "Having the whole vacation to work on this, naturally I did nothing until tea time this afternoon. I didn't even have an idea in my head until yesterday. About four o'clock yesterday afternoon I was strolling down the Broad in desperation. You know when there is some hateful task that has to be done, one will snatch at any pretext for postponing it. I stopped in at Blackwell's to look for a book I wanted. Up in one corner of the shop, lying on a row of books, I found this."
Impressively he drew from his pocket a double sheet of notepaper and held it up.
"It was a letter, evidently written by some girl to a man at the 'varsity. Finding it there, forgotten and defenseless, I could not resist reading it. It was a very charming letter, not too intimate, but full of