HAPTER VII.--After the Inquest.

To be ill in college rooms, how miserable it is! Mainland's scout called
him at half-past seven with the invariable question, "Do you breakfast
out, sir?" If a man were in the condemned cell, his scout (if in
attendance) would probably arouse him on the morning of his execution
with, "Do you breakfast out, sir?"

"No," said Maitland, in reply to the changeless inquiry; "in common room
as usual. Pack my bag, I am going down by the nine o'clock train."

Then he rose and tried to dress; but his head ached more than ever,
his legs seemed to belong to someone else, and to be no subject of just
complacency to their owner. He reeled as he strove to cross the room,
then he struggled back into bed, where, feeling alternately hot and
cold, he covered himself with his ulster, in addition to his blankets.
Anywhere but in college, Maitland would, of course, have rung the
bell and called his servant; but in our conservative universities, and
especially in so reverend a pile as St. Gatiens, there was, naturally,
no bell to ring. Maitland began to try to huddle himself into his
greatcoat, that he might crawl to the window and shout to Dakyns, his
scout.

But at this moment there fell most gratefully on his ear the sound of a
strenuous sniff, repeated at short intervals in his sitting-room. Often
had Maitland regretted the chronic cold and handkerchiefless condition
of his bedmaker; but now her sniff was welcome as music, much more so
than that of two hunting horns which ambitious sportsmen were trying to
blow in quad.

"Mrs. Trattles!" cried Maitland, and his own voice sounded faint in his
ears. "Mrs. Trattles!"

The lady thus invoked answered with becoming modesty, punctuated by
sniffs, from the other side of the door:

"Yes, sir; can I do anything for you, sir?"

"Call Dakyns, please," said Maitland, falling back on his pillow. "I
don't feel very well."

Dakyns appeared in due course.

"Sorry to hear you're ill, sir; you do look a little flushed. Hadn't I
better send for Mr. Whalley, sir?"

Now, Mr. Whalley was the doctor whom Oxford, especially the younger
generation, delighted to honor.

"No; I don't think you need. Bring me breakfast here. I think I'll be
able to start for town by the 11.58. And bring me my letters."

"Very well, sir," answered Dakyns.

Then with that fearless assumption of responsibility which always does
an Englishman credit, he sent the college messenger in sea