When John Stover, President of the Kennedy House, arrived at the opening of the new scholastic year, he arrived magnificently in a special buggy, his changed personal appearance spreading wonder and incredulity before him. He was stylishly encased in a suit of tan whipcord, with creases down his trousers front that cut the air like the prow of a ship. On his head, rakishly set, was a Panama hat, over his arm was a natty raincoat and he wore gloves.

"Who is it?" said the Tennessee Shad faintly.

"It's the gas inspector," said Dennis de Brian de Boru, who, though now long of trousers, continued short of respect.

"Goodness gracious," said the Tennessee Shad, "can it be the little Dink who came to us from the Green House?"

Stover approached serenely and shook hands.

"Heavens, Dink," said the Gutter Pup, "what has happened? Have you gone into the clothing business?" "Like my jibs?" said Stover, throwing back his coat. "Catch this!"

The front rank went over like so many nine pins. Stover, pleased with the effect, waved his hand and disappeared to pay his militant respects to The Roman who led him to the light and looked him over with unconcealed amazement.

When Dink had gone to his old room the Tennessee Shad, the Gutter Pup and Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan were already awaiting him, with heads critically slanted.

"Tell us the worst," said the Gutter Pup.

"Are you married?" said the Tennessee Shad.

"Let's see her photograph," said Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan.

Now, Stover had foreseen the greeting and the question and had come prepared. He opened his valise and, taking out a case, arranged a dozen photographs on his bureau, artfully concealing the one and only in a temporarily subordinate position.

The three village loungers arose and stationed themselves in front of the portrait gallery.

"Why, he must be perfectly irresistible!" said the Gutter Pup.

"Dink," said Dennis, "do all these girls love you?"

Stover, disdaining a reply, selected another case.

"Razors!" said the Tennessee Shad.

"What for?" said Dennis.

"Oh, I shave, too," said the Gutter Pup, in whom the spirit of envy was beginning to work.

"And now, boys," said Stover briskly, taking off his coat, folding it carefully over a chair and beginning to unpack, "sit down. Don't act like a lot of hayseeds on a rail, but tell me what the Freshmen are like."

The manner was complete—convincing, without a trace of embarrassment. The three wits exchanged foolish glances and sat down.

"What do you weigh?" said the Gutter Pup faintly.

"One hundred and fifty-five, and I've grown an inch," said Stover, ranging on a ring a score of flashy neckties.

"I wish Lovely Mead could see those," said the Gutter Pup with a last appearance of levity.

"Call him up. Look at them yourself," said Stover, tendering the neckwear. "I think they're rather tasty myself."

Before such absolute serenity frivolity died of starvation. They made no further attempt at sarcasm, but sat awed until Stover had departed to carry the glad news of his increased weight to Captain Flash Condit.

"Why he's older than The Roman," said the Tennessee Shad, the first to recover.

"He's in love," said Dennis, who had intuitions.

"No, be-loved," said the Gutter Pup with a sigh, who was suffering from the first case, but not from the second.

The amazement of rolling, old Sir John Falstaff at the transformation of Prince Hal was nothing to the consternation of the Kennedy House at the sudden conversion of Dink Stover, the fount of mischief, into a complete disciplinarian.

Now the cardinal principle of House government is the division of the flock by the establishing of an age line. The control of the youngsters is almost always vigorously enforced, and though the logical principles involved are sometimes rather dubious they are adequate from the fact that they are never open to argument. Occasionally, however, under the leadership of some president either too indolent or incapable of leadership, this strict surveillance over the habits and conduct of youth is relaxed, with disastrous results to the orderly reputation of the House.

Stover, having been the arch rebel and fomenter of mischief, had the most determined ideas as to the discipline he intended to enforce and the respect he should exact.

The first clash came with the initial House Meeting, over which he presided. Now in the past these occasions had offered Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan and his attendant imps unlimited amusement, as King Lentz had been almost totally ignorant of the laws of parliamentary procedure.

Of a consequence, no sooner was a meeting fairly under way, than some young scamp would rise and solemnly move the previous question, which never failed to bring down a storm of hoots at the complete mystification of the perplexed chairman, who never to his last day was able to solve this knotty point of procedure.

Now, Dennis, while he had been impressed by Stover's new majesty, retained still a feeling of resistance. So the moment the gavel declared the meeting open he bobbed up with a wicked gleam and shrilly announced:

"Mr. Chairman, I move the previous question."

"Mr. Finnegan will come to order," said Stover quietly.

"Oh, I say, Dink!"

"Are you addressing the chair?" said Stover sternly.

"Oh, no," said Finnegan, according to his usual manner, "I was just whistling through my teeth, gargling my larynx, trilling——"

Crash came the gavel and the law spoke forth:

"Mr. Finnegan will come to order?"

"I won't!"

"Mr. Finnegan either apologizes to the chair, or the chair will see that Mr. Finnegan returns to short trousers and stays there. Mr. Finnegan has exactly one minute to make up his mind."

Dennis, crimson and gasping, stood more thoroughly amazed and nonplussed than he had ever been in his active existence. He opened his mouth as though to reply, and beheld Stover calmly draw forth his watch. Had it been any one else, Dennis would have hesitated; but he knew Stover of old and what the chilly, metallic note was in his voice. He chose the lesser of two evils and gave the apology.

"The chair will now state," said Stover, replacing his watch, "for the benefit of any other young, transcendent jokers that may care to display their side-splitting wit, that the chair is quite capable of handling the previous question, or any other question, and that these meetings are going to be orderly proceedings and not one-ring circuses for the benefit of the Kennedy Association of Clowns. The question before the House is the protest against compulsory bath. The chair recognizes Mr. Lazelle to make a motion."

The cup of Finnegan's bitterness was not yet filled. Stover's first act of administration was to forbid the privileges of the cold-air flues and the demon cigarette to all members of the House who had not attained, according to his judgment, either a proper age or a sufficient display of bodily stature. Among the proscribed was Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan, whose legs, clothed in new dignity, fairly quivered under the affront, as he tearfully protested:

"I say, Dink, it's an outrage!"

"Can't help it. It's for your own good."

"But I'm fifteen."

"Now, see here, Dennis," said Stover firmly, "your business is to grow and to be of some use. No one's going to know about it unless you yell it out, but I'm going to see that you turn out a decent, manly chap and not another Slops Barnett."

"But you went with Slops yourself."

"I did—but you're not going to be such a fool."

"Why, you're a regular tyrant!"

"All right, call it that."

"And I elected you," said Dennis, the aggrieved and astounded modern politician. "This is Goo-gooism!"

"No, it isn't," said Stover indignantly. "I'm not interfering with any fellow who's sixteen—they can do what they darn please. But I'm not going to have a lot of kids in this House starting sporting life until they've grown up to it, savez? They're going to be worth living with and having around, and not abominations in the sight of gods and men. Pass the word along."

The revolt, for a short while, was furiously indignant, but the prestige of Stover's reputation forestalled all thought of disobedience. In such cases absolute power is in the hands of him who can wield it, and Stover could command.

In short order he had reduced the youngsters to respect and usefulness, with the following imperial decrees:

These regulations were not simply an exercise of arbitrary authority, for in the House itself were certain elements which Dink perfectly understood, and whose spheres of influence he was resolved to confine to their own limits.

"How're you going to enforce, Sire, these imperial decrees?" asked the Tennessee Shad, who, however, thoroughly approved.

"I have a method," said Stover, with an interior smile. "It's what I call a Rogues' Gallery."

"I don't see," said the Tennessee Shad, puzzled.

"You will."

The first rebel was a Freshman, Bellefont, known as the Millionaire Baby, who, due to a previous luxurious existence, had acquired manly practices at an early age. Bellefont was detected with the odor of tobacco.

"Young squab, have you been smoking?" said Stover.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" said the youngster defiantly.

"Gutter Pup, get your camera," said Stover.

The Gutter Pup, mystified, returned. The autocrat seized the young rebel, slung him paternally across his knee and with raised hand spoke:

"Gutter Pup, snap a couple of good ones. We'll make this Exhibit A in our Rogues' Gallery."

Bellefont, at the thought of this public perpetuation, set up a howl and kicked as though mortally stung. Stover held firm. The snapshots were taken, developed and duly posted.

From that moment, in public at least, Stover's slightest gesture was obeyed as promptly as the lifting of an English policeman's finger.

The yoke once accepted became popular alike with the older members, who ceased to be annoyed, and with the squabs themselves, who, finding they were protected from bullying or unfair exactions, soon adopted toward Stover an attitude of reverent idolatry that was not without its embarrassments. He was called upon at all hours to render decisions on matters political and philosophical, with the knowledge that his opinion would instantly be adopted as religion. Before him were brought all family quarrels, some serious, some grotesque; but each class demanding a settlement in equity.

One afternoon Dennis maliciously piloted to his presence Pee-wee Norris and his new roommate, a youngster named Berbacker, called Cyclops from the fact that one eye was glass, a gift that brought him a peculiar admiration and envy.

Stover, observing the cunning expression on Finnegan's face, scented a trap. The matter was, indeed, very grave.

"See here, Dink," said Pee-wee indignantly; "I leave it to you. How would you like to stumble upon a loose eye all over the room?"

"A what?"

"A loose eye. This fellow Cyclops is all the time leaving his glass eye around in my diggin's and I don't like it. It's the deuce of a thing to find it winking up at you from the table or the window-seat. It gives me the creeps."

"What have you got to say, Cyclops?" said Stover, assuming a judicial air.

"Well, I've always been used to takin' the eye out," said Cyclops, with an injured look. "Most fellows are glad to see it. But, I say, I'm the fellow who has the kick. The whole thing started by Norris hiding it on me."

"Did you swipe his eye?" said Stover severely.

"Well, yes, I did. What right's he got to let it out loose?"

"I want him to leave my eye alone," said Cyclops.

"I want him to keep his old eye in his old socket," said Pee-wee.

"Oh, Solomon, what is thy judgment?" said Dennis, who had engineered it all.

"I'll give my judgment and it'll settle it," said Dink firmly. "But I'll think it over first."

True to his word, he deliberated long and actively and, as the judgment had to be given, he called the complaining parties before him and said:

"Now, look here, Pee-wee and Cyclops; you fellows are rooming together and you've got to get on. If you fight, keep it to yourselves; don't shout it around. But get together—agree. You've got to go on, and the more you agree—ahem—the less you'll disagree, see? It's just like marriage. Now you go back and live like a respectable married couple, and if I hear any more about this glass eye I'll spank you both and have you photographed for the Rogues' Gallery."

Among the members of the Kennedy House there were two who defied his authority and gave him cause for dissatisfaction—the Millionaire Baby, who was a nuisance because he had been pampered and impressed with his own divine right, and a fellow named Horses Griffin, who was unbearable because, owing to his size and strength, he had never had the blessing of a good thrashing.

Now when Stover promulgated his laws for the protection of Squabs he had served notice on the sporting centers that he expected their adherence. Fellows like Slops Barnett and Fatty Harris, who, to do them justice, approved of segregation, made no defiance. Griffin, though, who was a hulking, rather surly, self-conscious fellow, secretly rebelled at this act of authority, and gave asylum to Bellefont, from whom he was glad to accept the good things that regularly arrived in boxes from a solicitous mother.

Stover had seen from the first how the issue would have to be met, and met it at the first opportunity. Griffin having defied his authority by openly inviting the Millionaire Baby up for the nefarious practice of matching pennies, Dink marched up the stairs and entered the enemy's room.

A moment later the group expectantly gathered in the hall heard something within that resembled an itinerant cyclone, then the door blew open and Griffin shot out and raced for the stairs, while behind him—like an angry tom-cat—came Stover, in time to give to the panicky champion just that extra impetus that allowed him, as Dennis expressed it, to establish a new record—flying start—for the twenty-six steps. After this little explanation Griffin showed a marked disinclination for the company of Bellefont, and became, indeed, quite a useful member of the community, though he always retained such acute memories that an angry tone from Stover would cause him to fidget and calculate the distance to the door.

Griffin subdued, the Millionaire Baby still remained. The problem was a knotty one, for as Bellefont was still of sub-stature the means of correction were limited.

"What worries your Majesty?" said Dennis de Brian de Boru, perceiving Stover in stern meditation. "Is it that beautiful specimen of flunky-raised squab entitled the Millionaire Baby?"

"It is," said Dink. Between him and Dennis peace had long since been concluded.

"He is a very precious hothouse flower," said Dennis sarcastically.

"He is the most useless, pestiferous, conceited little squirt I ever saw," said Dink.

"I love him not."

"But I'll get that flunky smell out of him yet!"

"The pity is he has such fat, juicy boxes from home."

"He has—how often?"

"Every two weeks."

"It oughtn't to be allowed."

"What are you going to do? You can't take 'em by force."

"No—that wouldn't do."

"Still," said Dennis regretfully, "he's so young it is just ruining his little digestion."

They sat a moment deliberating. Finally Dink spoke rapturously:

"I have it. We'll organize the Kennedy Customs House."

"Aha!"

"Everything imported must pass the Customs House."

"Pass?"

"Certainly; everything must be legal."

"What am I to be?"

"Appraiser."

"I'd rather be first taster."

"Same thing."

"You said pass," said Dennis obstinately. "I don't like that word."

"Purely technical sense."

"But there will be duties imposed?"

"Certainly."

"Aha!" said Dennis brightening. "Very high duties?"

"The maximum duty on luxuries," said Dink. "We're all good Republicans, aren't we?"

"I am, if I can write the tariff schedule," said Dennis, who, as may be seen, was orthodox.

When, on the following week, young Bellefont received his regular installment of high-priced indigestibles he was amazed to see the Gutter Pup and Lovely Mead appear with solemn demeanor.

"Hello," said the Millionaire Baby, placing himself in front of the half-open box.

"See these badges," said Lovely Mead, pointing to their caps, around which were displayed white bandages inscribed "inspector."

"Sure."

"We're in the Customs House."

"Well, what?"

"And we have received information that you are systematically smuggling goods into this territory."

The Millionaire Baby looked as though a ghost had arisen.

"Aha!" said the Gutter Pup, perceiving the box. "Here's the evidence now. Officer, seize the goods and the prisoner."

"What are you going to do to me?" said the culprit in great alarm.

"Take you before the Customs Court."

The Customs Court was sitting, without absentees, in Stover's room—appraisers, weighers, adjusters and consulting experts, all legally ticketed and very solemn. The prisoner was stood in a corner and the contents of the box spread on the floor.

"First exhibit—one plum cake," announced Beekstein, who was in a menial position.

"Duty sixty-five per cent," said Dennis de Brian de Born Finnegan, consulting a book. "Raisins and spices."

"Two bottles of anchovy olives,"

"Duty fifty per cent, imported fruits."

"Only fifty per cent?" said Stover, who had a preference for the same.

"That's all."

"What's it on?"

"Imported fruits."

"How about spiced fish?" said the Tennessee Shad, coming to the rescue, "and, likewise, Italian glass?"

The Millionaire Baby gave a groan.

"Imported fish, forty per cent," said Dennis, "glass—Venetian glass—thirty-five per cent. He owes us thirty per cent on this."

"Continue," said Stover, casting a grateful glance at the Tennessee Shad.

"Two boxes of candied prunes, that's vegetables, twenty-five per cent."

"They're preserved in sugar, aren't they?"

"Sure."

"There's a duty of fifty per cent on sugar."

"Long live the Sugar Trust."

"Doggone robbers!" said the Millionaire Baby tearfully.

"Three boxes salted almonds, one large box of chocolate bonbons, one angel cake and six tins of candied ginger."

The judges, deliberating, assessed each article. Stover rose to announce the decree.

"The clerk of the court will return to the importer thirty-five per cent of the plum cake, twenty-five per cent of the candied prunes, one box of salted almonds and two tins of ginger."

The Millionaire Baby breathlessly contained his wrath.

Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan addressed the court:

"Your Honor."

"Mr. Finnegan."

"I beg to call to your Honor's attention that these goods have been seized and are subject to a fine."

"True," said Stover, glancing sternly at the frothing Bellefont. "I would be inclined to be lenient, but I am informed that this is not the defendant's first offense. The clerk of the court will, therefore, confiscate the whole."

The Millionaire Baby, with a howl, began to express himself in the language of the stables.

"Gag him," said Stover, "and let him be informed that the duties will be lightened if in the future he declares his imports."

The government then applied the revenues to the needs of the department of the interior.

"The duty on anchovy olives is too high," said Finnegan, looking fondly down a bottle.

"How so?"

"It will stop the imports."

"True—we might reduce it."

"We must encourage imports," said the Gutter Pup firmly.

And the chorus came full mouthed:

"Sure!"

The Millionaire Baby received three more boxes—that is, he received the limited portion that a paternal government allowed him. Then, being chastened, he took a despicable revenge—he stopped the supply.

"Well, it was sweet while it lasted," said Dennis regretfully.

"We've stopped toadyism in the House," said Stover virtuously. "We have eliminated the influence of money."

"That is praiseworthy, but it doesn't fill me with enthusiasm."

"Dink," said the Tennessee Shad, "I must say I consider this one of your few failures. You're a great administrator, but you don't understand the theory of taxation."

"I don't, eh? Well, what is the theory?"

"The theory of taxation," said the Tennessee Shad, "is to soak the taxed all they'll stand for, but to leave them just enough, so they'll come again."