en a more lamentable
place. To be rattled in a hansom down George Street and then brought
face to face with the front quad of Balliol is not an inspiring method
of approach to beauty. But King's was more presentable.

An aged man, who looked dyspeptic and morose, staggered out of the
lodge and asked Martin's name: then he summoned a brisk underling,
immaculately dressed in a bowler hat and dark blue suit. The underling
picked up his bag and guided him up three flights of rickety stairs
into a dingy apartment, mainly remarkable for the smallness of its
windows. Outside the door Martin had seen the word 'Snutch.'

"Mr Snutch's," said the underling. "These will be yours." Then, to
Martin's great surprise and at the expense of his own perfect trousers,
he knelt humbly down and lit the fire. It seemed incredible that one
so magnificent should stoop to light a fire. Then he said: "Your scout
will be in at six, sir," and vanished.

Martin turned to survey the room. On the walls were some extraordinary
banners or ribbons, on two of which were the words:

Ahwamkee University.

There were some photographs, plainly American, and a large engraving
called 'Love's Pathway.' On the wide expanse of shelves there stood six
lonely books--five large volumes on Law and the Rubaiyat of Omar
Khayyam. At the beginning of each was written: 'E libris Theo. K.
Snutch.' Martin was tempted to amend the inscription to 'E libris sex
Theo. K. Snutch.' On the mantelpiece were some athletic trophies. Mr
Snutch's residence at Oxford, at three hundred a year, was not
altogether unjustified: he could terrifically throw the hammer.

Next, Martin found a penny paper called _The University_ and eagerly
glanced through it to discover the quality of Oxford journalism. There
were jokes about Socialists with red ties and there was an open letter
to the varsity heavy-weight boxer. It began, 'Dear Chuckles,' and
ended with best wishes for 'the dear little girl who will some day take
the ring with you.' The reader was not even spared the allusion to the
possible appearance of 'Chucklets.'

"My god!" said Martin. He began to wonder whether he hadn't made a
mistake in refusing to go to Cambridge.

The room was depressing, so he put on his overcoat and walked out into
the rain: he went down St Olde's to the river. In those days
horse-drawn trams still rattled slowly through the streets, making a
feeble pretence of antiquity. It angered Ma