ND now for a 'burst'!” I said to myself.

Adieu, fond fancies; welcome, gay reality!”

I dressed for the evening; I filled my purse; I started out to seek the real friends I had been neglecting for the sake of that imaginary one. But I had only got the length of opening my door when I smiled a cynical smile. There was Halfred in the passage playing the same farce with Aramatilda. They stood very close together, remarkably close together, talking in low tones.

“Thus woman fools us all,” I thought.

With a little exclamation Miss Titch flew upstairs while Halfred turned to me with something of a convicted air.

“Miss Titch has been a-telling me, sir—” he began.

“I know; I saw her,” I replied, eying him in a way that disconcerted him considerably. “She has been telling you that woman is worthy of your homage; and doubtless you believed her. Did you not?”

“No, sir. She ain't said that exactly,” he answered; “though it wouldn't be surprising, either, to hear 'er usin' them kind of words, considering 'er remarkable heducation. Wot she said was—”

“That you will serve till she finds another,” I interposed.

“Miss Titch, sir, ain't one of that kind,” he replied, with an air of foolish chivalry I could not but admire in spite of myself.

“Pardon, Halfred. She is divine; I admit it. What did she say, then?”

“She says there's been a furriner pumpin' 'er about you, sir, this very hafternoon.”

“Pumping?”

“Hashing questions like wot a Bobby does; as if 'e wanted hall the correct facts.”

“Ha!” I said. “And he asked them of a woman!”

“Yes, sir; 'e comed up to 'er in the square and says 'e, 'You're Miss Titch, ain't you?' and 'e gets a-talkin' to 'er—a very polite gentleman 'e was, she says—and then 'e sorter gets haskin' about you, sir, and wot you was a-doing and 'oo your friends was, and about the General, too.

“And, in brief, he gossiped with her on every subject that would serve as an excuse,” I said. “Halfred, if I were you and I felt interested in Miss Titch—I say, supposing I felt interested in Miss Titch, I should look out for that foreigner and practise my boxing upon him!”

“Then you don't think, sir—”

“I don't think it was me he was interested in.”

“Well, sir,” said my servant, with a disappointed air, for he founded great hopes of melodrama upon me, “in that case I shall advise Miss Titch to take care of 'erself.”

I laughed.

“Do not fear,” I replied. “They all do that. It is we who need the caution! Yes, Halfred, my sympathy is with that poor foreigner.”

I fear my servant put down this sentiment to mere un-British eccentricity, but I felt I had done my duty by him.

As for the inquisitive foreigner, I smiled at the idea that he had really addressed the fair Aramatilda for the purpose of hearing news of me. I may mention that I had heard nothing more of Hankey; nothing from the league; nothing had followed the arrival of the packing-case; the French government seemed to have ignored my escapade; there were many foreigners in London unconnected with my concerns; so why should I suppose that this chance acquaintance of Aramatilda's had anything to do with me? “If I am wanted, I shall be sent for,” I said to myself. “Till then, revelry and distraction!”

First, I sought out Teddy Lumme. We met for the first time since I left Seneschal Court, but at the first greeting it was evident that all resentment had passed from his mind as completely as it had from mine.

“Where the deuce have you been hiding?” he asked me, with his old geniality. “We wanted you the other night; great evening we had; Archie and me and Bobby and Tyler; box at the Empire, supper at the European, danced till six in the morning at Covent Garden; breakfast at Muggins; and the devil of a day after that. I'd have sent you a wire but I thought you'd left town. No one has seen you. Been getting up another conspiracy, what? Chap at the French embassy told me the other day their government expected your people to have a kick-up soon. By Jove, though, he told me not to tell any one! But you won't say anything about it, I dare say.”

“I can assure you it is news to me,” I replied, “but in any case I certainly should not discuss the matter indiscreetly.”

“And now the question is,” said Teddy, “where shall we dine and what shall we do afterwards?”

Ah, it may be elevating and absorbing to experiment in Plato and guide the operations of philanthropy, but when the head is not yet bald and the blood still flows fast, commend me to an evening spent with cheerful friends in search of some less austere ideal! This may not be the sentiment of an Aurelius—but then that is not my name.

We dined amid the glitter of lights and mirrors and fair faces and bright colors; a band thundering a waltz accompaniment to the soup, a mazurka to the fish; a babel of noise all round us—laughing voices, clattering silver, popping corks, stirring music; and ourselves getting rapidly into tune with all of this.

“By-the-way,” I said, in a nonchalant tone, “have you seen Aliss Trevor-Hudson again?”

“No,” said Teddy, carelessly, and yet with a slightly uncomfortable air.

“Did you become friends again? Pardon me if I am indiscreet.”

“Hang it! d'Haricot,” he exclaimed; “I'm off women—for good this time.”

“Then she was—what shall I say?”

“She kept me hanging on for a week,” confessed Teddy, “and then suddenly accepted old Horley.”

“Horley—the stout baronet? Why, he might be her father!”

“So Miss Horley thinks, I believe,” grinned Teddy. “His family are sick as dogs about it.”

“And hers?”

“Oh, Sir Henry has twenty thousand a year; they're quite pleased.”

I smiled cynically at this confirmation of my philosophy.

“I say, have you got over your own penshant, as you'd call it, for the lady?” asked Teddy.

“My dear fellow,” I said, lightly, “these affairs do not trouble me long. I give you a toast, Teddy—here is to man's best friend—a short memory!”

“And blow the expense!” added Teddy, somewhat irrelevantly, but with great enthusiasm.

“A short life and a merry one!” I exclaimed.

“Kiss 'em all, and no heel-taps!” cried Teddy. “Waiter, another bottle, and move about a little quicker, will you? Getting that gentleman's soup, were you? Well, don't do it again; d'ye hear?”

At this moment a piercing cry reached us from the other side of the room. It sounded like an elementary attempt to pronounce two words, “Hey, Teddy! Hey, Teddy!” and to be composed of several voices. We looked across and saw four or five young men, most of them on their feet, and all waving either napkins or empty bottles. On catching my friend's eye their enthusiasm redoubled, and on his part he became instantly excited.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Excuse me one minute.”

He rushed across the room and I could see that he was the recipient of a most hilarious greeting. Presently he came back in great spirits.

“I say, we're in luck's way,” he said. “I'd quite forgotten this was the night of the match.”

It then appeared that the universities of Oxford and Cambridge had been playing a football match that afternoon and that on the evening of the encounter it was an ancient custom for these seats of learning to join in an amicable celebration of the event.

“The very thing we want,” said Teddy. “Come on and join these men—old pals of mine; dashed good chaps and regular sportsmen. Come on!”

“But,” I protested, as I let him lead me to these “regular sportsmen,”

“I am neither of Oxford nor Cambridge.”

“Oh, that doesn't matter. Hi!” (this was to call the attention of his friends to my presence). “Let me introduce Mr. Black, of Brasenose; Mr. Brown, of Balliol, Mr. Scarlett, of Magdalen; Mr. White, of Christchurch. This is my honorable and accomplished friend, Mr. Juggins, of Jesus!”

At this there was a roar of welcome and a universal shout of “Good old Juggins!”

“But indeed my friend flatters me!” I exclaimed. “I have not the honor to be the Juggins.”

No use in disclaiming my new name, however. Juggins of Jesus I remained for the rest of that evening, and there was nothing for it but to live up to the character. And I soon found that it was not difficult. All I had to do was to shout whenever Mr. Scarlett or Mr. Black shouted, and wave my napkin in imitation of Mr. White or Mr. Brown. No questions were asked regarding my degree or the lectures I attended, and my perfect familiarity with Jesus College seemed to be taken for granted. I do not wish to seem vainglorious, but I cannot help thinking that I produced a favorable impression on my new friends.

“Juggins won the match for us,” shouted Mr. White. “Good old Juggins!”

“I did, indeed. Vive la football! I won it by an innings and a goal!” I cried, adopting what I knew of their athletic terms.

“Juggins will make us a speech! Good old Juggins!” shouted Mr. Black.

“Fellow-students!” I replied, rising promptly at this invitation, “my exploits already seem known to you, better even than to myself. How I hit the wicket, kick the goal, bowl the hurdle, and swing the oar, what need to relate? Good old Juggins, indeed! I give you this health—to my venerable college of Jesus, to the beloved colleges of you all, to my respectable and promising friend, Lumme, to the goal-post of Oxford, to love, to wine, to the Prince of Wales!”

Never was a speech delivered with more fervor or received with greater applause. After that I do not think they would have parted with me to save themselves from prison. And indeed it very nearly came to that alternative more than once in the course of the evening.

We hailed two hansoms, and drove, three in each, and all of us addressing appropriate sentiments to the passers-by, to a music-hall which, as I am now making my dÉbut as a distinguished sportsman, I shall call the “Umpire.” I shall not give its real name, as my share in the occurrences that ensued is probably still remembered by the management. It was, however, not unlike the title I have given it.

My head, I confess, was buzzing in the most unwonted fashion, but I remember quite distinctly that as we alighted from our cabs there was quite a crowd about the doors, all apparently making as much noise as they could, and that as we pushed our way through, my eyes were fascinated by a bill bearing the legend “NEPTUNE—the Amphibious Marvel! First appearance to-night! All records broken!” And I wondered, in the seriously simple way one does wonder under such conditions, what in the world the meaning of this cryptogram might be.

We got inside, and, my faith! the scene that met our eyes! Apparently the football match was being replayed in the promenade and on the staircases of the Umpire. Three gigantic figures in livery—“the bowlers-out” as they are termed—were dragging a small and tattered man by the head and shoulders while his friends clung desperately to his lower limbs. Round this tableau seethed a wild throng shouting “Oxford!”

“Cambridge!” and similar war-cries—destroying their own and each others' hats, and moved apparently by as incalculable forces as the billows in a storm. On the stage a luckless figure in a grotesque costume was vainly endeavoring to make a comic song audible; and what the rest of the audience were doing or thinking I have no means of guessing.

“Oxford! To the rescue!” shouted Mr. Black.

“Vive Juggins! Kick the football!” I cried, leading the onslaught and hurling myself upon one of the bowlers-out.

“Good old Juggins!” yelled my admirers, as they followed my spirited example, and in a moment the house rang with my new name. “Juggins!” could, I am sure, have been heard for half a mile outside.

The uproar increased; more bowlers-out hurried to the rescue; and I, thanks to my efficient use of my fists and feet, found myself the principal object of their attention. Had it not been for the loyal support of my companions I know not what my fate would have been, but their attachment seemed to increase with each fresh enemy who assailed me.

At last, panting and dishevelled, my opera-hat flattened and crushed over my eyes, the lining of my overcoat hanging out in a long streamer, like a flag of distress, I was dragged free by the united efforts of Mr. White and Mr. Scarlett, and for an instant had a breathing space.

I could see that the curtain was down and the performance stopped; that many people had risen in their places and apparently were calling for the assistance of the police, and that from the number of liveries in the mÊlÉe the management were taking the rioters seriously in hand. In another moment two or three of these officials broke loose and bore down upon me with a shout of “That's 'im!”

“Bolt, Juggins!” cried Mr. Scarlett. “We'll give you a start.”

The two intrepid gentlemen placed themselves between me and my pursuers. I stood my ground for a minute, but seeing that nothing could withstand the onset of my foes, and that Mr. White was already on the floor, I turned and fled. The chase was hot. I dashed down a flight of stairs, and then, by a happy chance, saw a door marked “private.” Through it I ran and was making my way I knew not whither, but certainly in forbidden territory, when I was confronted by an agitated stranger. I stopped, and would have raised my hat had it not been so tightly jammed upon my head.

The man looked at me for a moment, and then seemed to think he recognized my face.

“You are Mr. Neptune?” said he.

“You have named me!” I cried, opening my arms and embracing him effusively.

“I am afraid you got into the crowd,” said he, withdrawing, in some embarrassment, I thought. “I suppose that is why you are late.”

“That is the reason,” I replied, feeling mystified, indeed, but devoutly thankful that he did not recognize me as the hunted Juggins.

“Well,” he said, “you had better go on at once, if you don't mind. There is rather a disturbance, I am afraid, and we have lowered the curtain; but perhaps your appearance may quiet them.”

“My appearance?” I asked, glancing down at my torn overcoat, and wondering what sedative effect such a scarecrow was likely to have. Besides, I had appeared and it had not quieted them; though this, of course, he did not know.

“I mean,” he answered, “that the nature of your performance is so absorbing that we hope it may rivet attention somewhat.”

A light dawned upon me. I now remembered the bill outside the theatre. I was the “Amphibious Marvel!” Well, it would not do for the intrepid Juggins to refuse the adventure. For the honor of Jesus College I must endeavor to “break all records.” My one hope was that, as it was to be my first appearance, anything strange in the nature of my performance might be received merely as a diverting novelty.

“The stage is set for you,” said my unknown friend. “How long will it take you to change?”

“Change?” I replied. “This is the costume in which I always perform.”

He looked surprised, but also relieved that there would be no further delay, and presently I found myself upon a huge stage, the curtain down in front, and no one there but myself and my conductor. What was I expected to do? I was sufficiently expert at gymnastics to make some sort of show upon the trapeze without more than a reasonable chance of breaking my neck. But there was no sign of any such apparatus. Was I, then, a strong man? I had always had a grave suspicion that those huge cannon-balls and dumb-bells were really hollow, and, in any case, I could at least roll them about. But there were neither cannonballs nor dumb-bells. No, there was nothing but a high and narrow box of glass.

“It is all right, you will find,” said my conductor, coming up to this.

I also approached it and gave a gasp.

The box was filled with water—water about six feet deep!

“I shouldn't care to dive into it myself,” he said, jocularly. “But I suppose it is all a matter of practice.”

“Do I dive in—from the roof?” I asked, a little weakly, I fear.

“Did you mean to?” he replied, evidently perturbed lest their arrangements had been insufficient.

“Not to-night,” I said, with a sigh of relief. “But to-morrow night—ah, yes; you will see me then!”

He regarded me with undisguised admiration.

“You are all ready?” he asked.

“Quite,” I replied.

We went into the wings and the curtain rose.

“I time you, of course,” said my friend, taking out his watch. “You have stayed under five minutes in Paris, haven't you?”

I had discovered my vocation at last. The Amphibious Neptune was a record-breaking diver.

“Ten,” I answered, carelessly, and with such an air as I thought appropriate to my reputation I walked onto the stage.

“Gentlemen and ladies!” shouted my friend, coming up to the foot-lights. “This is the world-famed Neptune, who has repeatedly stayed under water for periods of from eight to ten minutes! He is rightly styled—”

But at this point his voice was lost in such an uproar as, I flatter myself, greets the appearance of few Umpire artistes. “Good old Juggins!” they shouted. “Good old Juggins!” I was recognized now, and I must live up to my reputation as the high-spirited representative of Jesus College, Oxford.

Kissing my hand to my cheering audience I mounted the steps placed against the end of the tank, and with a magnificent splash leaped into the water—I cannot strictly say I dived, for, on surveying the constricted area of my aquatic operations, it seemed folly to risk cracking a valuable head.

Unluckily, I had omitted in my enthusiasm to remove even my top-coat, and either in the air or the water (I cannot say which) I drove my foot through the torn lining. Conceive now the situation into which my recklessness had plunged me—entangled in my overcoat at the bottom of six feet of water, struggling madly to free myself, with only a sheet of transparent glass between me and as dry a stage as any in England; drowning ridiculously in clear view of a full and enthusiastic house. My struggles can only have lasted for a few seconds, though to me they seemed longer than the ten minutes I had boasted of, and then—the good God be thanked!—I felt the side of my prison yield to my kicking, and in another moment I was seated in three inches of water, dizzily watching a miniature Niagara sweep the stage and foam over the foot-lights into the panic-stricken orchestra.

“Down with the curtain!” I heard some one cry from behind, but before it had quite descended the Amphibious Marvel had smashed his way out of his tank and leaped into the unwilling arms of the double-bass.

Ah! that was a night to be remembered—though not, I must frankly admit, to be repeated. Another mÊlÉe with the exasperated musicians; a gallant rescue by Teddy and his friends; a triumphant exit from the Umpire borne on the shoulders of my cheering admirers; all the other events of that stirring night still live in the memory of “Good old Juggins.” To my fellow undergraduates of an evening I dedicate this happy, disreputable reminiscence.