The Prospector | Page 4

VIII. THE OLD PROSPECTOR IX. TIM CARROLL X.
THE TURF MEET XI. "I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME
IN" XII. HIS KEEPER XIII. THE PRESIDENT OF GUY'S, LONDON
XIV. OLD PROSPECTOR'S AWAKING XV. EJECTED AND
REJECTED XVI. "STAY AT YOUR POST, LAD" XVII. BETTY'S
LAST WORDS XVIII. THE DON'S RECOVERY XIX. THE REGION
BEYOND XX. THE NEW POLICY XXI. THE WAITING GAME

I
A SOCIAL IMPOSSIBILITY
It was one of November's rare days. The kindly air, vital with the
breath of the north wind and mellow with the genial sun, was full of
purple haze; the grass, still vividly green, gave no hint of the coming
winter; the trees, bony and bare but for a few rags of summer dress,
russet-brown and gold, stood softened of all their harshness in the
purple haze and slanting, yellow light of the autumn afternoon. Nature
wore a face of content. She had fulfilled her course for another year,
and, satisfied with her achievement, was obviously thinking of settling
herself into her winter's sleep.
It was a good day to be alive. The tingle in the air somehow got into the
blood.
So it felt to a young girl who danced out from under the trees on the
west boundary of the University campus.
"Oh!" she cried to her statelier, taller sister, who with a young man
followed more sedately into the open. "Oh, what a day! What a
picture!"
She was a bonny maid just out of her teens, and, with her brown gown,
brown hair and eyes, red cheeks, and wholesome, happy face, she fitted
well into the picture she herself looked upon.
"Dear old 'Varsity," said her sister in a voice quiet, but thrilling with

intense feeling. "There is nothing so lovely in all this city of Toronto."
"Toronto!" exclaimed the young man at her side. "Well, I should say!
Don't you know that a distinguished American art critic declares this
building the most symmetrical, the most harmonious, the most
perfectly proportioned bit of architecture on the American continent.
And that is something, from a citizen of the 'biggest nation on dry
land.'"
They walked slowly and silently along the border of the matchless
velvety lawn, noting the many features of beauty in the old grey face of
the University building--the harmonious variety of lines and curves in
curious gargoyles, dragons, and gryphons that adorned the cornices and
the lintels, pausing long to admire the wonderful carved entrance with
its massive tower above.
"Great, isn't it?" said Lloyd. "The whole thing, I mean--park, lawn, and
the dear old, grey stones."
At this moment some men in football garb came running out of the
pillared portico.
"Oh, here's the team!" cried Betty, the younger sister, ecstatically. "Are
they going to play?"
"No, I think not," said Lloyd. "Campbell would not risk any
scrimmaging or tackling this evening, with McGill men even now in
town thirsting for their blood. He's got them out for a run to limber up
their wind and things for to-morrow."
The sisters were football enthusiasts. For the past four years the
beautiful Rosedale home of the Fairbanks had been the rendezvous for
students, and, as many of these had been football men, the young ladies
had become as devoted to the game and almost as expert in its fine
points as any of its champions.
"Don't they look well and fit," exclaimed Betty as the string of runners
went past.
"Yes, and fit they are every man," replied Lloyd. "There's Campbell!
He's a truly great captain, knows his men, and gets out of them all that
is possible."
"Yes, and there's Brown; and McNab, isn't it? Aren't they the quarters?"
asked Betty excitedly.
Lloyd nodded. "And yonder goes `Shock,' the great Shock."
"Oh, where?" cried Betty. "Yes, yes. Now, do you know I think he is

just as mean as he can be. Here I have been bowing and smiling my
best and sweetest for four years, and though he knows a lot of the men
we know he is just as much a stranger as ever," and Betty pouted in a
manner that would have brought deep satisfaction to Shock had he seen
her.
"Here are the three halves, aren't they?" inquired Helen, the elder sister.
"Yes," replied Lloyd. "There's Martin and Bate. Fine fellow, Bate--
and--"
"Oh!" broke in Betty, "there's the 'The Don.' do wish they would look.
They needn't pretend they don't see us, the horrid things."
"Of course they see you," answered Lloyd, "but they are engaged in
serious business. You surely don't expect to divert their attention from
the pursuit of their noble art. Why, who, or what do you conceive
yourself to be?"
But Betty only smiled serenely, and shook her curls back saucily.
"Oh, I know," replied Lloyd, "I