, and the dog naturally thereupon bit the bursar's
leg; while his master and other _enfants perdus_, taking
advantage of the diversion, rushed down the dark stairs, past the
party of order, and into the quadrangle, where they scattered
amidst a shout of laughter. While the porter was gone for a
light, the Dean and his party rashly ventured on a second ascent.
Here an unexpected catastrophy awaited them. On the top landing
lived one of the steadiest men in college, whose door had been
tried shortly before. He had been roused out of his first sleep,
and, vowing vengeance on the next comers, stood behind his oak,
holding his brown George, or huge earthenware receptacle, half
full of dirty water, in which his bed-maker had been washing up
his tea-things. Hearing stealthy steps and whisperings on the
stairs below, he suddenly threw open his oak, discharging the
whole contents of his brown George on the approaching
authorities, with a shout of, "Take that for your skulking."

The exasperated Dean and tutors rushing on, seized their
astonished and innocent assailant, and after receiving
explanations, and the offer of clean towels, hurried off again
after the real enemy. And now the porter appeared again with a
light, and, continuing their rounds, they apprehended and
disarmed Drysdale, collected the college plate, marked down
others of the rioters, visited Chanter's rooms, held a parley
with the one of their number who was screwed up in his rooms, and
discovered that the bars had been wrenched out of the kitchen
window. After which they retired to sleep on their indignation,
and quiet settled down again on the ancient and venerable
college.

The next morning at chapel many of the revellers met; in fact,
there was a fuller attendance than usual, for every one felt that
something serious must be impending. After such a night the dons
must make a stand, or give up altogether. The most reckless only
of the fast set were absent. St. Cloud was there, dressed even
more precisely than usual, and looking as if he were in the habit
of going to bed at ten, and had never heard of milk punch. Tom
turned out not much the worse himself, but in his heart feeling
not a little ashamed of the whole business; of the party, the
men, but, above all, of himself. He thrust the shame back,
however, as well as he could, and put a cool face on it. Probably
most of the men were in much the same state of mind. Even in St.
Ambrose's, reckless and vici