“Come in” said the Senior Tutor of St. Boniface: and two scholars came in. (He knew they were scholars, because this was his hour for seeing scholars.) One was a heavy-looking young man in a frock coat and tall hat. The other was a spruce youth, who looked as if nature had intended him for an attorney’s clerk; as, indeed, nature had.

“Scholars, I presume, gentlemen?” inquired the Tutor. The young men bowed. “In what subjects, may I ask? You, sir” (turning to the spruce youth) “Mr.—I forget your name—eh? Oh, thanks—is it Classics? History? Natural Science, perhaps?”

“Oh no, sir; I hold a ‘Daily Thunderer’ Scholarship.”

“Exactly: I remember now. You read all through Tit-Bits for a whole year, and the ‘D. T.’ pays you—£l,200, isn’t it? The task is a little dear at the price, it always seemed to me: but still, Tit-Bits—”

“It isn’t quite that, sir,” put in the youth; “it was for the ‘Encyclop—’”

(“I knew it was dear at the price,” the Tutor murmured.)

‘“—Ædia Pananglica,’” continued the scholar. “My Scholarship is for reading that. I have it outside, in three packing-cases.”

“The Scholarship?” asked the Tutor, weakly.

“No,” said the scholar; “the ‘EncyclopÆdia Pananglica.’”

“Well,” the academic dignitary resumed, “and what have you read? To prepare yourself for a university career, I mean.”

“The ‘Encyc—’”

“Of course, of course; but anything else? I wish to know so as to advise you with respect to the direction of your studies. Have you, for instance, read any Homer?”

“Homer!” the youth replied—“Oh, yes, I know about Homer. There is a picture of Homer, drawn from life, and very well reproduced, among the illustrations of the article ‘Education.’ There is one there of Comenius, too. Homer and Comenius—”

“Were both educationists, I know,” said the Tutor: “but not, properly speaking, in the same way. However—you have not studied the father of poetry in the original, it would appear. Any Xenophon, perhaps? or CÆsar?”

“I don’t think I know much about Xenophon,” replied the young man, “but I have a friend who failed in CÆsar for the Cambridge Locals, and he said it was pretty easy.”

“Do you know any Greek or Latin at all?”

“Well, as I came along I bought a Delectus: I was told it might be helpful for attaining the highest honours.”

“Exactly. You thought it might be helpful—of course, of course. You were quite right—perfectly, perfectly correct,” the Tutor murmured, with a faraway look in his eyes. Then he collected himself, and turned to the other aspirant. “And you, sir—pardon me, I didn’t quite catch—eh? Oh, thanks!—what, may I ask, are the conditions on which you hold your Scholarship?”

“My education,” replied the heavy young man, “was completed at the Jabez H. Brown University of Thessalonica, Maine, U.S.A. I am a recipient of a Scholarship under the provisions of the will of the Right Honourable Cecil J. Rhodes, the eminent philanthropist. No doubt, Professor, you will have heard of him.”

“Ah! a Rhodes Scholar,” said the Tutor. “That is better—much better. You will, no doubt, study the Classics. There are those (I am well aware) who are disposed to object to modern American Scholarship as an excessive attention to minutiÆ: but personally, I confess, I am no enemy even to a meticulous exactness, which alone can save us from an incurious and slipshod rhetoric! . . . And what, then, are the points of scholarship which it has been your endeavour to elucidate? Have you followed in the steps of the lamented Professor Drybones of Chicago, who died before he could prove, by a complete enumeration of all the instances in Greek literature, that ??? is never the first word of a sentence? Have you—”

“Pardon me, Professor,” put in the Rhodes Scholar. “That ain’t my platform at all. I may say, I don’t take any stock in literatoor.”

“Am I then to understand,” the Tutor asked, “that you are not acquainted with the Greek and Latin Classics?”

“Not considerable,” replied the American. “In fact, not any.”

“And to what, then, have your studies been directed?”

“Not to books, Professor. No, nor yet laboratories and such. I was elected Scholar by the unanimous suffrage of my class in Thessalonica, Maine, for Moral Character. When it comes to Moral Character, you look at me. That is just where I am on top every time.”

“Moral Character!” exclaimed the Tutor, aghast. “Oh, dear me! I am afraid that won’t do at all—here. Moral Character—well, I hardly know how to put it—but the fact is that if that is all that you have to rely upon, you would be sent down within a year infallibly—Oh, infallibly, I assure you! . . . But,” he continued, “we must try to think of something for both of you gentlemen. Could I not give you both a letter of recommendation to my friend the Master of St. Cuthbert’s? There, I know, they value very highly both morality and the ‘EncyclopÆdia Pananglica.’ I am sure it would be just the place for you both. Do let me write!”

“As the Master of Alfred’s sent Cecil Rhodes on to Auriol?” suggested the spruce young man, innocently.

“As the Master of—why, no,” said the Tutor, “I think that won’t do, after all. Really, I believe, we must try to keep you at Boniface.” Boniface had suffered severely from agricultural depression. “Well, gentlemen—come to me again two hours hence, and we will try to think of something for you. Good morning!”

* * * * *

The Tutor was in a sad quandary. Paid as he was by results fees, he could not afford to receive pupils who would disgrace him in the Schools. Yet it had always been his creed that a College must adapt itself to existing circumstances, and be instinct with the Zeit Geist.

For a long time he remained wrapt in meditation.

* * * * *

Two hours elapsed, and the Tutor was again confronted with the twin aspirants to academic honours. He regarded them with the mien of one visibly relieved from a load of care. “These papers, gentlemen,” he said, pointing to certain documents which lay upon the tutorial table, “relate to a project of which you have doubtless heard—I refer to the extension of our Public Schools into the remoter regions of the British Empire. They are reprinted from Mr. Sargant’s admirable letter to the Times, and the leading article on the subject. You are acquainted with them—No? Then pray take the papers: you will find them most instructive and agreeable reading during the voyage.”

“The—the voyage?” exclaimed the Rhodes Scholar.

“Certainly,” said the Tutor, “during the voyage. During the long afternoons when you are steaming over the oily calm of the Bay of Biscay, or being propelled (by friendly natives) down the rushing waters of the—ah—Congo. What I am proposing is that you two gentlemen should become members of our Branch Establishment in Timbuctoo. You must have heard of it! When schemes so beneficial to the Empire are mooted, was it likely that the Colleges of our great Imperial Universities would not take the lead in the van of progress? And when Eton, Harrow, and Giggleswick have founded institutions, similar to themselves in every respect except that of mere locality, in Asia, Africa, and Australasia, was the College of St. Boniface to be a laggard? Assuredly not. Gentlemen, I commend you to our Alma Mater beyond the seas.”

“But, Professor,” the Rhodes Scholar objected, “I was sent here across the salt water dish to join the College of St. Boniface. They were kind of sot upon that in Thessalonica. I guess they will be disappointed, some, if I ain’t made a professing member of St. Boniface.”

“But you will be, my dear sir—you will be!” cried the Tutor, with vehemence, “a member of St. Boniface-in-Timbuctoo: Sancti Bonifacii Collegii apud Timbuctooenses alumnus: it is precisely the same thing. You have doubtless read, in the course of your historical investigations, how Eton is really an offshoot of Winchester: is Eton not a public school? Of course it is. Similarly, in the Middle Ages a portion of the University broke off and migrated to Stamford. Was it Oxford any the less because it happened to be at Stamford? Not the least. The two institutions—St. Boniface in Oxford and St. Boniface in Timbuctoo—are precisely identical. When you gentlemen in future years are competing for—and I trust, I am sure, obtaining—positions of distinction and emolument in the great world, you will be entitled to describe yourselves as Boniface Men. You can drop the ‘Apud Timbuctooenses’ if you like: the omission will not be considered fraudulent. But I see no reason why you should drop it. Personally, I should glory in it. Had I won a scholarship for Moral Character, I would go to Timbuctoo to-morrow! There, it seems to me, is your special sphere. In Oxford, Moral Character is so frequent as to be a drug, a positive drug: but in Timbuctoo the possession is precious in proportion to its rarity.”

“But have they got the Tone and the Tradition there, sir?” asked the holder of a ‘Daily Thunderer’ Scholarship. “That would be, for me, very important. My family were especially anxious—”

“Assuredly they have got the Tone and the Tradition. Coelum non animum mutant—you have met with that, probably, in the ‘EncyclopÆdia Pananglica.’ Absolutely unimpaired, I assure you. We take great pains about that. Just an instance—the Visitor is the Bishop of Barchester, just as here with us: the local King wanted to be Visitor, but of course we couldn’t allow that. Imagine—a Visitor with fifty-three wives, not to mention! It wouldn’t have done at all: the Tone must have suffered. We are in constant communication (wireless, of course) with the Timbuctoo Branch: we are always being consulted. Only this morning we had to deal rather severely with an undergraduate member of the College—aboriginal, as many of them are—who insisted on playing the tom-tom in prohibited hours. Of course, we must back up the Dean, and in case of—emergency, we replace him and compensate his relations.”

“You speak, sir,” said the student of the EncyclopÆdia, “of a local King. I understood that the College was on British territory.”

“The British Empire,” replied the Tutor, “includes Hinterlands. This is a Hinterland. It is consequently from time to time the duty of the local college authorities to assist the British Resident at the Court of Timbuctoo in pulling down the French, German, Italian, Russian, and Portuguese flags, all of which have been occasionally erected. But the country is practically annexed. We are—ah—suzerains.”

“I understand, Professor, from your observation relative to the tom-tom,” put the American scholar, “that the students of your College are subjected to the regular British discipline? That would be kind of essential for me. Cecil J. Rhodes, the eminent philanthropist, was particularly anxious that I should have the full advantages of your fine old high-toned mediÆval College rules. You have regulations, I presume?”

“The regulations,” replied the Don, “are framed (as exactly as possible in the circumstances) on the lines with which we are familiar in Oxford. It has not been advisable, so far, to establish the Proctorial system in its entirety throughout the capital of Timbuctoo; but within the walls of St. Boniface (or perhaps in strict truth I should say within the Zariba) the strictest discipline prevails. Clothing is essential—if not worn, at least carried in the hand—for attendance in Hall and at lectures. Morning chapel is obligatory: conscientious objectors, if aborigines, may keep a private fetish in their rooms. Cannibalism is only permitted if directly authorized by the Dean, after a personal interview.”

This appeared to satisfy the Rhodes Scholar; his companion wished further to know whether residence in a Colonial College could be regarded as a step on the Educational Ladder. His friends, he said, had impressed upon him that his function in life was to climb the Educational Ladder.

“The ladder to which you refer,” explained the Tutor, “can be scaled as well in Africa as in England. In fact, better; there are distinctly greater facilities. In view of the regrettable inadequacy (at present) of any organized system of primary education in Timbuctoo, secondary education has been obliged to modify some of its standards. The University of Oxford, never backward in the march of progress, is prepared to make the requisite concessions; and, as a result, you will find that the highest honours are attainable without any acquaintance with the ordinary subjects of our curriculum. It is, I should say, the very place for you. Remember, too, that the very largest latitude is allowed—nay, encouraged—in the choice of special subjects qualifying for the M.A. degree; and what a field you will find! The habits of residents—indeed, of some among your own fellow students—are most interesting to the student of Anthropology! while investigations among the flora and fauna of this country must be fraught with the most delightful potentialities. I confess, I envy you. I do not think I am saying too much if I assure you that this University will be ready and willing to confer upon you, not only the ordinary M.A. degree, but a Doctorate of Science or Letters!

“Then,” continued the Tutor, “as to recreations; neque semper arcum tendit Apollo—I beg your pardon, I mean to say that you cannot always be studying the domestic habits of the hippopotamus under a microscope. Sports and games you will find plentiful and interesting. There is head-hunting, for instance—”

“Hunting the head of the college, do you mean, Professor?” asked the American.

“Certainly not,” replied the Don, with dignity. “That would not, under any circumstances, be permitted. If it were the Dean, now—but, oh no, certainly not the Head. What I refer to is the pursuit and collection of decapitated human heads, belonging generally to personal enemies of the collector; it is a sport common in Borneo, and among other interesting, if primitive, nationalities. This pastime is, I understand, a favourite one with some students of the college. It is practised, I need hardly say, under the very strictest supervision; there must be a certificate signed by the British Resident, and a special written recommendation from the Director of the Craniological Department of the Museum. Under such restriction abuse is, of course, impossible. Then, again, there is golf; and it is hardly necessary to remind you that the Sahara provides perhaps the finest natural golf links in the world.”

“Well, Professor,” said the American, “I guess I will start. But how are we going to get right there, now? On the cars?”

“By the Cape to Cairo railway, when it is open,” the Tutor answered. “There will be a branch line. At present, the main line is, as you are aware, incomplete, and the branch is—well, in course of construction. Passengers are conveyed by motor. Or, if not by motor, by ox-waggon; trekking by the latter method is, I believe, the safer way; both, however, are, I understand, most commodious. I may explain to you that the present is a particularly auspicious occasion for your journey; you will travel in the company of the new Junior Dean, whose society, I am sure, you will find delightful. His predecessor, a personal friend of my own, succumbed, I grieve to say, a few months ago—owing to the alleged inadequate supply of beef-steaks at a ‘Torpid’ breakfast. . . . Painful, but apparently inevitable. I need hardly say, the perpetrators of this insult have been rusticated for a whole term.”

“Is the Junior Dean a coloured person—a nigger?” asked the Rhodes Scholar.

“All the College officials,” explained the Don, “are, in the highest and best sense of the word, white men. Some of the Ordinary Fellows, it is true—Mr. Sargant’s scheme contemplated, you see, the election to fellowships of persons of local distinction. But our officials are, without exception, Oxford men. It would be impossible, otherwise, to preserve the Tone and the Tradition.”

“And now, gentlemen,” he continued, “I must not keep you too long. Procrastination is the thief of time, eh? and besides, your boat leaves Southampton to-morrow. All expenses on the journey refunded by the Timbuctoo Bursar, on application. Are your boxes unpacked? No? Then all you have to do is to alter the labels.”

“About the ‘EncyclopÆdia,’” said the spruce youth. “It is in three packing cases—a bit ’eavy. Will carriage be paid?”

“Oh certainly, certainly,” replied the Tutor. “Of course, I might relax our regulation about bonfires in the quadrangle—but no, no, I am sure you will find it most useful, even up-to-date—in Timbuctoo. Good morning!”

* * * * *

The Tutor, with a sigh of relief, renewed his perusal of the “Itinerarium” of Nemesianus. Nemesianus, honest man! did not know where Timbuctoo was. Nor, for the matter of that, did the Tutor.