rant have
such a struggle? Simply because the profession is over-stocked with
seniors. I would like to know what Tennyson's age is, and Ruskin's,
and Browning's. Every one of them is over seventy, and all writing
away yet as lively as you like. It is a crying scandal.

"Things are the same in medicine, art, divinity, law--in short, in
every profession and in every trade.

"Young ladies cry out that this is not a marrying age. How can it be a
marrying age, with grey-headed parents everywhere? Give young men
their chance, and they will marry younger than ever, if only to see
their children grown up before they die.

"A word in conclusion. Looking around me, I cannot but see that most,
if not all, of my hearers have passed what should plainly be the
allotted span of life to man. You would have to go.

"But, gentlemen, you would do so feeling that you were setting a noble
example. Younger, and--may I say?--more energetic men would fill your
places and carry on your work. You would hardly be missed."

Andrew rolled up his thesis blandly, and strode into the next room to
await the committee's decision. It cannot be said that he felt the
slightest uneasiness.

The president followed, shutting the door behind him.

"You have just two minutes," he said.

Andrew could not understand it.

His hat was crushed on to his head, his coat flung at him; he was
pushed out at a window, squeezed through a grating and tumbled into a
passage.

"What is the matter?" he asked, as the president dragged him down a
back street.

The president pointed to the window they had just left.

Half a dozen infuriated men were climbing from it in pursuit. Their
faces, drunk with rage, awoke Andrew to a sense of his danger.

"They were drawing lots for you when I left the room," said the
president.

"But what have I done?" gasped Andrew.

"They didn't like your thesis. At least, they make that their excuse."

"Excuse?"

"Yes; it was really your neck that did it."

By this time they were in a cab, rattling into Gray's Inn Road.

"They are a poor lot," said Andrew fiercely, "if they couldn't keep
their heads over my neck."

"They are only human," retorted the president. "For Heaven's sake,
pull up the collar of your coat."

His fingers were itching, but Andrew did not notice it.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"To King's Cross. The midnight express leaves in twenty minutes. It
is your last chance."

Andrew was