his contest draw
many to him. More likely he will be like Byron, a wonderful,
irresponsible creature, who at one time plumbed the depths, and at
another swept the heavens--a creature irresistibly attractive, because
he is irresistibly human. Gordon was a personality. His preparatory
school master said of him once: "He will be a great failure or a great
success, perhaps both," and it was the truest thing ever said of him. At
present the future was very uncertain. During his first year he had been
imbibing knowledge from his contemporaries; he had been a spectator; now
the time had come for him to take his part in the drama of Fernhurst
life. All ignorant he went his way; careless, arrogant and proud.

It must be owned that during this year Gordon was rather an
objectionable person. He was very much above himself. For five years he
had been tightly held in check, and when freedom at last came he did not
quite know how to use it. He was boisterous and noisy; always in the
middle of everything. If ever there was a row in the studies, it would
be a sure assumption that Caruthers was mixed up in it. Everything
combined to give him a slack time.

Ferguson was head of the House. But he took only a casual interest in
its welfare.

"My dear Betteridge," he used to say, "if you were aware of the large
issues of art and life, you would see that it would be a mere waste of
time worrying about such a little thing as discipline in a house. You
should widen your intellectual horizon. Read Verlaine and Baudelaire and
then see life as it is."

Ferguson was a poet; twice a term the school magazine was enriched with
a poem from his pen. His last effort was called _Languor_, and opened
with the line:

"In amber dreams of amorous despair."

"The Bull" had asked someone in his house what the thing meant. To
Ferguson that seemed a high compliment. To be incoherent was a great
gift. Swinburne often meant very little, and in his heart of hearts
Ferguson thought _Languor_ was, on the whole, more melodious than
_Dolores_. But that was, of course, purely a matter of opinion. At any
rate, it was a fine composition; and a poet must not dabble in the
common intrigues of little minds.

He let the House go its own sweet way; and the House was grateful, and
gave Ferguson the reputation of being rather a sport. There were no more
weekly orders; no more cleaning of corps clothes. There was at last
peace in Jerusalem, and plenteousness within h