It is sometimes rather interesting, if quite profitless, to study the genealogy of an event, tracing its descent back from one cause to another until we have found, for example, that the failure of the grocer to bring a can of baking powder on Thursday afternoon is responsible for the loss to us of $500 on Friday morning, tracing the descent in this case through a late breakfast, a missed train, a street-car blockade and a tardy arrival at our office. Of course we have not here exhausted the possibilities of this process, for we might easily go further back and show that the forgetfulness of the grocer was due to mental commotion brought about by the extreme illness of his six-months’ old son and heir, produced, in turn, by the administration of laudanum in mistake for ipecac by his mother. In fact, the possibilities only end with the original protoplasm; which really simplifies matters a great deal to the student of this line of research, since it is only necessary to say “I lost $500 because of the original protoplasm; deuce take the protoplasm!” and give no attention to the intermediate events.

But all this is entirely beside the story, and was only suggested by the ease with which it is possible to trace the lineage of the event which forms a conclusion of this tale. For it is quite apparent that had Sir Henry Irving not played an engagement at the Hollis Street Theatre in March of that year the final chapter of this story would have been quite different from what it is. Hence, if the reader finds fault with the conclusion—and I admit that it might be better—he may censure Sir Henry—unless he prefers to go back to the original protoplasm. I, as a mere chronicler, disclaim all blame.

Betty wanted to see Irving in “King Charles I.” Phillip, animated by his desire to please Betty, invited her and Mrs. Kingsford. Betty at first refused to allow him to indulge in such expensive things as Irving seats, but after much entreaty moderated the harshness of her decree. They would go if Phillip would get seats in the balcony; the balcony was good enough; one could see and hear beautifully. The prospect of sitting for three hours at Betty’s side raised Phillip to the seventh heaven of delight, and the thought of expending six dollars for that privilege failed to discompose him. This was largely due to a letter received a day or two before from Margaret. With the letter came a check for a hundred dollars.

“Mr. Corliss has sold an option on Elaine for $500,” she wrote. “He does not say who the parties are, but seems almost certain that they will purchase in the spring. The option runs until June 1st, and may be extended. I do hope the sale will go through, Phil. Now that we know it must be, the sooner it’s over with the better, don’t you think so? Mamma wants you to have the money so that you can come home for your spring vacation. She will be very disappointed if you don’t, so try and arrange it.”

And further on:

“Won’t you please answer my questions about Mr. North? Have you seen him? Are you friends again, Phil, dear? Don’t let it go on any longer, please, please. What can he think of us, Phil? He must believe that I have allowed you to think it all his fault. Please write about it, dear. It isn’t like you to let me worry about anything like this and not try to help me.”

Phillip, moved by this last appeal, answered her questions. “I am going to give him an opportunity to explain,” he wrote. “If he cares to do that and shows himself decently sorry, all right. Meanwhile don’t worry, Margey. I don’t believe John North cares a Continental. I daresay he’s mighty glad to be rid of me.”

From the latter statement it may be surmised that Phillip was a little piqued at John’s seeming indifference. Phillip was very happy nowadays and his resentment against John was rapidly cooling. After all, the worst had not happened; Betty had never heard of what he was pleased to call his disgrace. And even though John could claim no credit for that fact, yet Phillip was inclined to consider it a mitigating circumstance. It is probable that had John appeared to Phillip at that time and expressed regrets for having unintentionally wounded the other’s pride, he would have been forgiven. But as John was unaware of having transgressed, that event was impossible. When Phillip wrote to Margaret of giving John an opportunity to explain, he referred to the note which he had frequently postponed writing but which he really intended to write.

Phillip conferred with Chester in regard to the theatre tickets, recognizing in his roommate an authority on the subject. And Chester, after vainly endeavouring to persuade Phillip to see “Louis XI.” instead of “Charles I.,” as being rather more “bloody,” came to his assistance with advice.

“What you want to do,” he said, “is to go over to Thurston’s and leave an order in advance. They’ll get you just what you want.”

“But won’t that be awfully expensive?” asked Phillip.

“Well, maybe it would. I’d forgotten. The only thing to do, then, is to get in line.”

“What’s that?”

“You go to the theatre the night before the sale and stand in line until the next morning. It’s not bad fun, really. I’ll tell you what! We’ll go in together and take turns waiting!”

“But I didn’t know you were going to see him?”

“I wasn’t, but I don’t mind seeing ‘Sans Gene’ again. We can have lots of fun getting tickets.”

So the following Wednesday evening they went into town at ten o’clock, and after a light supper at Marliave’s, insisted upon by Chester and partaken of at his expense, betook themselves to the theatre. They were by no means the first on the scene. Already fully a dozen persons were leaning against the theatre wall and armed with camp stools, mackintoshes and umbrellas.

“We ought to have brought stools,” said Chester. “How silly of me to forget.”

“And I reckon we’ll need umbrellas, too,” added Phillip. “It looks a good deal like rain, don’t you think so?”

Chester did.

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’ll go back to the room and get a mackintosh and an umbrella; and maybe I can find a camp stool somewhere.”

So back to college he went, while Phillip made himself number fourteen, or it may have been fifteen, in the line. After awhile the performance let out and the lobby was filled with men and women in evening dress, and the little narrow street became a bedlam as the carriages dashed up for their loads. It was quite interesting and Phillip enjoyed it. But about midnight the excitement waned and the novelty began to wear off. To make matters worse, it began to rain, gently, insistently, and the chill got under his overcoat and set him to shivering. Now and then a waiter left the line and tramped about and swung his arms, his claim to his position being respected by the rest. Most of them, Phillip concluded, were speculators, though here and there stood one who was evidently, like himself, present from motives of economy. Phillip wondered what had become of Chester, and longed greatly for the promised umbrella and mackintosh. But at one o’clock Chester was still absent and Phillip gave up hoping for him. By that hour the throng had increased to fully half a hundred. Now and then a policeman strolled by, and once a vendor of sandwiches and coffee appeared and did a rushing business.

But it was tiresome, miserable work. Phillip was wet and sleepy and cold. If it hadn’t been for Betty he would have given up long before the interminable night was over and gone home to bed. As it was, however, he stuck it out. When daylight came and the electric lamps grew dimmer and dimmer and finally flickered out he felt weak and dizzy, and the second repast of coffee and sandwiches failed to comfort him. At eight o’clock the line stretched the length of the street and an army of small speculators were offering to buy positions at the head. At half past nine he was on his way back to Cambridge, the three dearly bought slips of pasteboard in his pocket, a horrible taste in his mouth, a gone sensation in his stomach and a splitting headache. He went to sleep in the corner of the car and had to be awakened at the square. From thence he tramped across the Yard, sneezing at every third step, and found Chester dressing.

“I’m awfully sorry, Phil,” the latter declared. “I didn’t mean to do it. But I was so darned sleepy when I got back that I just laid down for a moment on the couch—just to get a dozen winks, you know. Well, when I woke up it was half past four, by jingo! Of course there was no use going back to town then, so I took my things off and went to bed. I’m awfully sorry, really!”

“It doesn’t matter,” replied the other. “I think I’ll lie down awhile myself. Wake me in about an hour, will you?”

In the late afternoon he hunted up Everett.

“I got tickets for Monday night. Will you tell your sister, please? And I’ll be at the house at seven fifteen. I reckon I’ll go back now; my head aches and I’m kind of funny all over. I’m going to bed.”

He staggered against a chair and subsided into it limply.

“Here, you come with me,” said Everett.

He took him back to his room and didn’t leave him until he was in bed with all the covers that could be found piled on top of him.

“Maybe I’d ought to send the doctor to you,” said Everett undecidedly. But Phillip wouldn’t hear of it. He was all right now, he declared between chattering teeth; all he needed was sleep. No, he didn’t want any dinner. But would Everett please tell his mother and Betty——

Everett promised and went off doubtfully. By good fortune he met Chester on the avenue and told him of Phillip’s plight, and Chester flew back to Thayer calling himself bad names. When he arrived Phillip was sitting up in bed singing happily:

Chester pushed him back against the tumbled pillows and drew the covers over him.

“Phil,” he cried with a frightened sob in his voice, “Phil, please shut up!”

“Oh, Phil, please, please lie down and shut up!” begged Chester. “You’re—you’re daffy, you know!”