Gentlemen, give me the low pitch A!"

Instantly the note was sounded; even the weeping pupil hummed it through
his tears, and a panic was averted by the coolness of a massive brain
fertile in expedients.

The committee, now thoroughly awake, looked gratified, and the
examination began.

After glancing through the list, Dr. Nopkin called aloud:

"Mr. Hogwin, will you please tell me the date of the death of Verdi?"

"Don't let him jolly you, Hoggy, old boy," sang the class in an
immaculate minor key. The doctor was aghast, but Mr. Quelson took the
part of his school. He argued that the question was a misleading one.
They wrangled passionately over this, and Blink finally declared that if
Verdi was not dead he ought to be. This caused a small riot, which was
appeased by the class singing the _Anvil Chorus_.

"Well, I give in, Mr. Quelson; perhaps my friend Blink would like to put
a few questions." Dr. Nopkin fanned himself vigorously with an old and
treasured copy of Dwight's _Journal of Music_, containing a criticism of
his "passionate octave playing." Mr. Blink arose and took the list.

"I see here," he said, "the name of Beckmesser McGillicuddy. The name is
a promising one. Wagner ever desired the Celt to be represented in his
scheme of the universe."

"Obliging of him," insinuated Mr. Tile of the _Daily Bulge_.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," groaned poor Quelson; "think of the effect on
the class if this spirit of irreverent repartee is maintained."

"Mr. Beckmesser McGillicuddy, will you please stand up?" requested Mr.
Blink.

"Stand up, Gilly! Stand up Gilly, and show him what you are. Don't be
afraid, Gilly! We will see you through," chanted the class with an
amazing volume of tone and in lively rhythm.

The young man arose. He was 6 feet 8, with a 17 waist, and a 12-1/2
neck. Yet he looked intelligent. The class watched him eagerly, and the
Missouri member, now thoroughly recovered, whistled the Fate-motif from
_Carmen_, and McGillicuddy looked grateful.

"You wish to become a music critic, do you not?" inquired Mr. Blink,
patronizingly.

"What do you think I'm here for?" asked the student, in firm, cool
tones.

"Tell me, then, did Wagner ever wear paper collars?"

"Celluloid," was the quick answer, and the class cheered. Mr. Quelson
looked unhappy, and Tile sneered in a minor but audible key.

"Good," said Mr. Blink. "You'll do. Would any of my colleagues care to
question this young and promising ap