he recognized acquaintances
was there the least variation, since some would nod or toss their heads,
others would shudder with their chins, and a few would raise their arms
in a fanlike gesture of social benediction. Michael turned round into
the Broad where the fog made mysterious even the tea-tray gothic of
Balliol, and Trinity with its municipal ampelopsis. A spectral cabman
saluted him interrogatively from the murk. A fox-terrier went yapping
down the street at the heels of a don's wife hurrying back to Banbury
Road. A belated paper-boy yelled, "Varsity and Blackheath Result,"
hastening toward a more profitable traffic. The fog grew denser every
minute, and Michael turned round into Turl Street past many-windowed
Exeter and the monastic silence of Lincoln. There was time to turn aside
and visit Lampard's bookshop. There was time to buy that Glossary of
Ducange which he must have, and perhaps that red and golden Dictionary
of Welby Pugin which he ought to have, and ultimately, as it turned out,
there was time to buy half a dozen more great volumes whose connection
with mediaeval history was not too remote to give an excuse to Michael,
if excuse were needed, for their purchase. Seven o'clock chimed
suddenly, and Michael hurried to college, snatched a black coat and a
gown out of Venner's and just avoided the sconce for being more than a
quarter of an hour late for hall.

Michael was glad he had not missed hall that night. In Lampard's
alluring case of treasures he had been tempted to linger on until too
late, and then to take with him two or three new books and in their
entertainment to eat a solitary and meditative dinner at Buol's. But it
would have been a pity to have missed hall when the electric light
failed abruptly and when everybody had just helped themselves to baked
potatoes. It would have been sad not to have seen the Scholars' table so
splendidly wrecked or heard the volleys of laughter resounding through
the darkness.

"By gad," said Lonsdale, when the light was restored and the second year
leaned over their table in triumphant exhaustion. "Did you see that bad
man Carben combing the potatoes out of his hair with a fork? I say,
Porcher," he said to his old scout who was waiting at the table, "do
bring us some baked potatoes."

"Isn't there none left?" inquired Porcher. "Mr. Lonsdale, sir, you'd
better keep a bit quiet. The Sub-Warden's looking very savage--very
savage indeed."

At this moment Mauric