Friday the fifteenth of March was the last day of term. The Scorpions, busy in their various ways with the hundred details that have to be attended to before “going down,” were all pleasantly excited by the anticipation of their quest, which was to begin on the morrow. Carter, shaking hands with the warden of New College in the college hall (a pleasant little formality performed at the end of each term) absent-mindedly replied “Wolverhampton” when the warden asked him where he was going to spend the vacation. He was then hard put to it to avoid a letter of introduction to the vicar of St. Philip's in that city, an old pupil of the warden. King, bicycling rapidly down the greasy Turl with an armful of books, collided vigorously with another cyclist at the corner of the High. They both sprawled on the curb, bikes interlocked. “My god, sir!” cried the Goblin; “Why not watch where you're going?” Then he saw it was Johnny Blair. “Sorry, Goblin,” said the latter; “I—I was thinking about Kathleen.” “So was I,” said King, picking up his books. And in defiance of the University statute of 1636 (still unrepealed) which warns students against “frequenting dicing houses, taverns, or booths where the nicotian herb is sold,” they went into Hedderly's together to buy tobacco.

After breakfast the next morning they were all in cabs on their way to the Great Western Station. It was a mild and sunny day, with puffs of spring in the air. Who can ever forget the Saturday morning at the end of term when the men “go down”? Long lines of hansoms spinning briskly toward the station, with bulging portmanteaus on the roof; the wide sunny sweep of the Broad with the 'bus trundling past Trinity gates; a knot of tall youths in the 'varsity uniform of gray “bags” and brown tweed norfolk, smoking and talking at the Balliol lodge—and over it all the clang of a hundred chimes, the gray fingers of a thousand spires and pinnacles, the moist blue sky of England.... Ah, it is the palace of youth, or it was once.

The Scorpions met on the dingy north-bound platform. Graham, Keith, and Twiston had been obliged to scratch owing to other more imperative plans; but five members boarded the 10 o'clock train in high spirits. Forbes, Carter, King, Blair, and Whitney—they filled a third-class smoker with tobacco and jest.

“Now, Goblin,” cried Falstaff, as the train ran past the Port Meadow, and the Radcliffe dome dropped from view; “Open those sealed orders! You promised to draw up the rules of the game.”

King pulled a paper from his pocket.

“I jotted down some points,” he said. “This is the time to discuss them.”

“Rules to be Observed by the Scorpions on the Great Kathleen Excursion

“1. The headquarters of the expedition will be the Blue Boar Inn at Wolverhampton. (I've written to them to engage rooms.)

“2. The Kriegspiel will begin to-day at 2 P.M., and manoeuvres will continue without intermission until someone is declared the winner, or until time is called.

“3. The object of the contest is to make the acquaintance of Kathleen; to engage her in friendly conversation; to win her confidence, and to induce her to accept an invitation to Commem, or Eights Week.

“4. Any deception, strategy, or tactics which are not calculated to give intolerable distress or embarrassment to Kathleen and her family, are allowable.

“5. If by noon on Tuesday no one shall have succeeded in making friends with Kathleen, the game shall be declared off.”

“Suppose she's not at home?” said Whitney.

“We'll have to chance that.”

“What time do we get there?”

“I've ordered lunch at the Blue Boar at one o'clock. This train gets to Wolvers at 12:30.”

It was a merry ride. The story of Kathleen as they had written it was discussed pro and con.; the usual protests were launched at Carter for having in his chapter lowered the theme to the level of burlesque; praise was accorded to the Goblin for the dexterity with which he had rescued the plot. Blair's chapter had been full of American slang which had to be explained to the others. “Joe,” the Rhodes Scholar hero, had shown a vein of fine gold under Blair's hands: he bade fair to win the charming Kathleen, although the story had not been finished owing to the examinations which had fallen upon the brotherhood toward the end of term. The game, begun in pure jest, had taken on something of romantic earnest: there was not one of these young men who did not see in Kathleen his own ideal of slender, bright-cheeked girlhood. And when the train pulled into Wolverhampton, they tumbled out of their smoking carriage with keen expectation.

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