Michael was glad he had not missed hall that night. In Lampard’s alluring case of treasures he had been tempted to linger on until too late, and then to take with him two or three new books and in their entertainment to eat a solitary and meditative dinner at Buol’s. But it would have been a pity to have missed hall when the electric light failed abruptly and when everybody had just helped themselves to baked potatoes. It would have been sad not to have seen the Scholars’ table so splendidly wrecked or heard the volleys of laughter resounding through the darkness.
“By gad,” said Lonsdale, when the light was restored and the second year leaned over their table in triumphant exhaustion. “Did you see that bad man Carben combing the potatoes out of his hair with a fork? I say, Porcher,” he said to his old scout who was waiting at the table, “do bring us some baked potatoes.”
“Isn’t there none left?” inquired Porcher. “Mr. Lonsdale, sir, you’d better keep a bit quiet. The Sub-Warden’s looking very savage—very savage indeed.”
At this moment Maurice Avery came hurrying in to dinner.
“Oh, sconce him!” shouted everybody. “It’s nearly five-and-twenty past.”
“Couldn’t help it,” said Maurice very importantly. “Just been seeing the first number of the O.L.G. through the press.”
“By gad,” said Lonsdale. “It’s a way we have in the Buffs and the Forty Two’th. Look here, have we all got to buy this rotten paper of yours? What’s it going to cost?”
“A bob!” cried Lonsdale. “But, my dear old ink-slinger, I can buy the five-o’clock Star for a half-penny.”
Maurice had to put up with a good deal of chaff from everybody that night.
“Let’s have the program,” Sinclair suggested.
The editor was so much elated at the prospect of to-morrow’s great event that he rashly produced from his pocket the contents bill, which Lonsdale seized and immediately began to read out:
“THE OXFORD LOOKING-GLASS. No. I. _“Some Reflections. By Maurice Avery._
“Oh, politics,” said Maurice lightly, “and other things.”
“My god, he’ll be Prime Minister next week,” said Cuffe.
_“Socrates at Balliol. By Guy Hazlewood._
“And just about where he ought to have been,” commented Lonsdale. “Oh, listen to this! Whoo-oop!
_“The Failure of the Modern Illustrator._