Only Iris knew the source of his Saturday night John read a paper A proctor saw him and gave chase. He inspiration, and indeed his statistics. to the Emerson Society at a nearby did not know that his quarry had won Those late nights in the Bodleian college. Jasper was there, and after the Library, and a pale girl patiently read-applause had died down offered John a ing up the Fiscal Question in the glass of mulled claret. Debater's Encyclopædia. . . .! Where, the boys asked, did Oxford's captain and wicket-keeper find time to swot up politics to such effect? Excluded from the floor of the chamber by the antiquated laws of the society, Iris sat above in the gallery, her large eyes inspiring the speaker like two electric torches. And after the Debates John would go out and run far off into the country, with his long easy stride, still carrying his bat, for he was in traiming for the Beagles. And Iris ran with him. The effeminate clique at the Union, headed by Jasper and Seth, strained every nerve to stay his progress. They sat in a sullen group at the back of the hall, ate bulls'-eyes and interrupted. Violating the rule against canvassing, they treated Freshmen to ices on condition that they voted for their own candidate, an æsthetic weakling called Phelps. All in vain. John's speeches for and against Tariff Reform blew Phelps out of the water, and the unmanly hisses of Jasper and his gang were drowned in a flood of cheers. Cunning failing them, the opposition pondered force. The Thursday before the election is the Distinguished Strangers' Debate, at which the rival candidates cross verbal swords with each other and with great men from London. On their performance at this ordeal the votes of thousands of undergraduates depend. This term, attracted by the fame of John's doings, the Prime Minister had consented to take part in the debate. "No HEEL-TAPS, CHUM." A challenge no Oxford man who calls himself a man can refuse. John looked at the innocent liquid, little knowing, in fact not knowing at all, that Jasper had secretly dropped into it some cigarette-ash. The most cowardly weapon in the armoury of an undergraduate. On Monday he had to make a century. On Thursday he had to argue with the "JASPER HAD GONE OFF WITH JOHN'S BAT." The subject set for discussion had for many weeks been keeping Iris | Prime Minister. But the eyes of the awake: "THAT IN THE OPINION OF THIS HOUSE ART IS BETTER THAN SCIENCE." John was to speak second, opposing the motion; but, by the Sunday, as usual, Iris had a speech prepared on both sides. One Emerson Society were on him. gulp and the glass was empty. Too late he realised what he had done. "You CUR!" But his blow missed its mark, for already the deadly fumes had begun to It was a full week for John. By day do their work. Oxford-Worcestershire the match against Worcestershire, by-Iris-Emerson-rotated in his brain. night rehearsing for the O.U.D.S. per- He staggered out and raced for his formance of Maud. Between tea and College before the liquor should overdinner he sang with the Bach Choir; whelm him. before breakfast he wrote essays for his tutor. All this, with lectures and his much of his time. Small fencing, took up wonder that he was caught napping. For meanwhile SETH AND JASPER MACHINATED ON. "Gated, I think," leered Jasper. "RUSTIGATED answered Seth, "I fancy." The two laughed at the wicked jest. And meanwhile the Captain of Cricket staggered through the City of Steeples. the Four Mile Hurdles against Michigan. Intoxicated as he was and hampered by his bat, John covered the halfmile in thirty seconds level. The proctor abandoned the pursuit and died a few days later. But as John neared the great gates midnight began to strike... ONE Two THREE (and so on up to twelve). Too late! The last stroke was silent as the panting athlete raised his bat to batter on the forbidding portal. A thought stayed his bat. To rouse the sleeping janitor at this hour would mean disgrace--ruin. "Gated" certainly-perhaps rusticated-expelled. His scholarship taken away. And the Union! The match with Worcestershire could be postponed, but not the Prime Minister-not the Election. "THE GARDEN-WALL!" The wall of the College Garden was fifty feet high, covered with barbed wire and surmounted by broken bottles. But to the athlete it was the work of a minute to scale it. Saved! A movement in the deserted alley below attracted his attention. The moonlight shone upon an evil face smiling sardonically up at him through the barbed wire. JASPER! His enemy slouched away into the shadow. But what was that he carried? THE BAT! John had dropped his bat. Jasper had gone off with John's bat. IRIS'S BAT. . . . John cursed in the moonlight and fell into his college. III. The day of the Distinguished Strangers' Debate. . Since that fatal Saturday night nothing had gone right with John Sterling. He had saved his name and his scholarship, true; but he had lost his bat. And the power seemed to have gone out of him. The match with Worcestershire had been a fiasco, a massacre, a holocaust, a calamity. Worcestershire won the toss and put Oxford in. Then they put Oxford in again. They put Oxford in again and again, and still Oxford made no runs. Worcestershire won by three innings and 2,040 runs. It was nearly a record. The Oxford captain had disgraced himself. Without his bat he could not keep wicket, he could not bowl. Worcestershire scored 351 byes. He would not tell Iris what was the matter. He had bought a new bat and disguised it as hers. But, womanlike, she knew. At the Bach Choir he was twice pulled up for singing flat. And already the students were saying that a man who could not bowl better than that had no right to be President of the Union. In his spare time he hunted for Jasper; but Jasper had disappeared. His scout said he was "eating his dinners" at the Bar. John gnawed his cheeks. The great hall of the Union was packed. The officers came in. The Prime Minister came in. Sir Reginald Rickneck came in. Phelps came in. . . But where was John Sterling? Iris, gazing anxiously from the gallery, looked everywhere for him. She looked under the seats. She looked in the despatch-box. He was not there. . . . "Funked it, chaps," the callous boys were whispering at the back. On his way to the Debate an unseen hand had thrust a note into Joh Sterling's hand"COME TO 657, BANBURY ROAD, AND YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR BAT." No. 657! North Ox ford! Five miles away. But there was still time. Phelps concludes his speech. His tified by their black eyes and ultimately meretricious epigrams have for the arrested. moment captured the House. The President calls upon MR. STERLING! The Prime Minister protests against the delay. The President is about to call upon the Prime Minister when a slim flannelled figure forces its way through the crowd at the doors. The undergraduates stand up as one undergraduate and cheer their Cricket Captain. Extra ballot-boxes had to be constructed to accommodate John Sterling's votes. Iris on one arm and his batsplintered in the fight-under the other, he stood on the balcony of the Ashmolean as the result was announced by the Head of the University: A First-class Prizemanin Law, Science, and Modern Languages, and Home Iris's speech was the goods. She had Secretary-Designate, John Sterling led all the arguments by heart, all the his bride under an arch of bats from statistics. In a few minutes the House Caucus Chapel to the Fish Inn at Iffley. "IRIS'S SPEECH WAS THE GOODS." And it was worth it. With Iris's bat | is convinced that Science is better than And John Sterling is biting through his bonds. . . . When Iris sits down the whole House stands up, applauding. The Prime Minister refuses to speak, for the subject has been exhausted. "WILL YOU JOIN MY GOVERNMENT?" Iris smilingly assents. Looking from their window at the dreaming spires, hazy in the fog, Iris whispered "A NEW OXFORD." He took her in his of day; Now picture-postcard waves no more Break on a yellow shore; From seas mysterious, grey, And all the motor-horns are still. Shyly, with timid tread, Where light-foot down the heathery steep Beauty comes smiling home to sleep. Softly the wind's caress The waiting dancers, who begin There was an old buffer who said, De mortuis nil in various disguises, but were iden- I should say he was wrong in his head. |