Marbury had been away for three weeks when Peter was arrested one morning by a placard outside the Oxford theatre. A play was announced by a young dramatist who followed the lead of Peter's acknowledged master. Peter knew the play well, knew it was finer in quality than the majority of plays performed in London or elsewhere. There had been preliminary difficulties with the Censor as to the licensing of this play, but in the end it had been passed for public performance—not until the intellectual press had exhaustively discussed the absurdities implied in the Censor's hesitation. Peter knew by heart all the arguments for and against the Censorship of plays. Musical comedy and French farce ruled at the Oxford theatre—productions which Peter had publicly denounced as intentionally offered for the encouragement of an ancient profession. He was, therefore, agreeably pleased to read the announcement of a play morally edifying and intellectually brilliant.

But two days later a mild sensation fluttered the gossips of North Oxford and splashed into the conversation of the Common rooms. The Vicegerent of the University, who had an absolute veto upon performances at the Oxford theatre, suddenly decided that the play must not be presented.

Peter heard the news at dinner. For the remaining weeks of the term he was a raging prophet. Too excited to eat, he left the table and walked under the trees, smouldering with plans for exposing this foolish and complacent tyranny.

First he would exhaust clearly and forcibly upon paper its thousand absurdities. Peter wrote far into the night, caught in a frenzy of inspired logic. Having argued his position point by point, having rooted it firm in reason, morality, and justice, he flung loose the rein of his indignation. He ended by the first light of day, and read over his composition in a glow of accomplishment. Surely this conspiracy must collapse in a shout of laughter.

He took his MS. to a friend who at that time was editing the principal undergraduate magazine. Half an hour later he returned to his room gleaming with fresh anger. His friend had refused to publish his MS., saying it was too rude, and that he did not want to draw the evil eye of authority. Peter called him coward, and shook his fist under the editorial nose.

In the evening he arranged with a local publisher to print a thousand copies in pamphlet form. Later he attended a seminar class under the Vicegerent, and at the end of the hour waited to speak with him.

"Well, Mr. Paragon?"

Peter was outwardly calm, but for sixty interminable minutes he had boiled with impatient anger.

"Sir, I wish to resign from the seminar."

The Vicegerent detected a tremor of suppressed excitement. He looked keenly at Peter.

"What are your reasons?" he asked.

"I need more time for private reading."

"For example?"

"I am interested in the modern theatre."

Peter had intended merely to resign. He had not intended to offer reasons. But he could not resist this. The words shot rudely and clumsily out of him.

The Vicegerent saw a light in Peter's eye. He was a man of humour, and he smiled.

"H'm. This, I take it, is a sort of challenge?" he said.

"It is a protest," Peter suggested.

The Vicegerent twinkled, and Peter helplessly chafed. The Vicegerent put a gentle hand upon his arm.

"Well, Mr. Paragon, I'm sorry your protest has taken this particular form. I shall be sorry to lose you. However, your protest seems to be quite in order. So I suppose you are at liberty to make it."

"And to publish my reasons?" Peter flared.

"I have published mine," smiled the Vicegerent.

He took up a copy of the Oxford magazine, underlined a brief passage in blue pencil, and handed it to Peter. Peter read:

"The Vicegerent has decided that Gingerbread Fair is not a suitable play for performance at the Oxford Theatre. He does not think the moral of the play is one that can suitably be offered to an audience of young people. It will be remembered that this play was licensed by the Lord Chamberlain only after serious consideration of its ethical purport."

Peter choked.

"These are not reasons," he flamed.

"Mr. Paragon," said the Vicegerent, "this is not for discussion."

Peter dropped the magazine upon the table between them and went from the room without a word.

The Paggers joyfully roared when Peter's pamphlet issued from the press. Peter had improved it in proof with an Appendix, wherein, helped by his learned friends, he presented an anthology of indecorous passages collected from classical texts recommended for study by the Examiners. Peter explained to the world that the young people whose minds must not be contaminated by Gingerbread Fair would in default of its performance spend the evening with masterpieces by Aristophanes, Petronius, and Ovid of the "ethical purport" indicated in the cited examples.

Peter posted a copy of his pamphlet to every resident Master of Arts in Oxford, and awaited the result. He expected at least to rank with Shelley in conspicuous and reputable martyrdom. But nothing happened. The Warden met him with the usual friendly smile. The Vicegerent nodded to him affably in the Corn Market. They did not seem to have suffered any rude or shattering experience. The walls of learning stood yet, solemn and grey.

Words, it seemed, were wasted. Reason was of no account. Peter was resolved somehow to be noticed. He would break down this cynical indifference of authority to truth and humour.

Upon the morning when Gingerbread Fair should first have been performed in Oxford, Peter saw its place upon the placards taken by a play from London. The picture of a young woman in lace knickerbockers was evidence that the play would abound in precisely that sort of indecency which, as Peter had proved in his pamphlet, must necessarily flourish in a Censor-ridden theatre. That this kind of play should, by authority, be encouraged at the expense of the new, clean drama of the militant men whom Peter loved, pricked him to the point of delirium. He then and there resolved that the day should end in riot.

The Paggers were ready. They cared not a straw for Peter's principles; but, when he suggested that the play at the Oxford theatre should be arrested, they rented four stage-boxes and waited for the word. Peter, at urgent speed, had leaflets printed, in which were briefly set forth the grounds on which the men of Oxford protested against a change of bill which substituted the woman in knickerbockers for Gingerbread Fair. The play dragged on. Peter waited for the bedroom, and with grim patience watched the gradual undressing of the principal lady. He intended to make a speech.

The interruption came sooner than Peter intended. He was about to scatter his leaflets and leap to the stage when an outrageous innuendo from one of the actors inspired a small demonstration from some Paggers in the pit.

"Isn't it shocking?" said a voice in an awed, but audible, undertone.

"Order! order!" shouted some people of the town.

There were counter-cries of "Shame!" and in a moment the theatre was in an uproar. Peter scattered his leaflets with a magnificent gesture and jumped on to the stage. The Paggers tumbled out of their boxes, arrested the stage manager in the act of lowering the curtain, and began to carry off the stage properties as lawful spoil.

Peter had counted on being able to make a speech—to explain his position with dignity. He did not know how quickly an uproar can be raised. Also he had reckoned without the Paggers. They wanted fun.

When it was over Peter remembered best the frightened eyes of the woman on the stage. For no reason at all madness had burst into the theatre. She heard a great noise, and saw Peter with a gleaming face leap towards her. She screamed, and continued screaming, but her voice was lost.

Meantime her husband and manager, inferring that his wife had been insulted, came rushing from the wings.

Peter vainly trying to make himself heard, suddenly felt a violent push in the back. He turned and saw a furious man, apparently speaking, but his words were drowned. This man all at once hit Peter in the face.

Peter forgot all about the Censor, and shot out hard with his left. The man went down. Peter noticed that more than one person was rolling on the floor.

Seeing another member of the player's company before him with a lifted fist he hit him hard on the jaw. This man fell away, and Peter prepared to hit another. Then he noticed that the next man to be hit was a policeman; also that the Paggers were climbing hastily back into their boxes loaded with booty. He started after them, but, as he was stepping over a prostrate carcase, the carcase gripped him by the leg. He fell to the stage with a crash, knocking his head violently on the boards.

When Peter came to himself he was in the open air. The police were disputing for his body with the Senior Proctor. He sat up and felt his head. By this time the Senior Proctor had established his rights of jurisdiction, and the police, leaving Peter to the University, departed.

When Peter was able to stand, he confessed his name and accepted a summons to appear before the Vicegerent in his court of justice. He then went back to Gamaliel.

The Paggers were assembled in his room when he returned, telling stories of the evening and dividing the spoil. There was eager competition for some of the articles, more especially for personal property of the principal lady. All such garments as she had already discarded had been thoughtfully secured. They lay in a fascinating heap upon Peter's rug. It had just been decided, when Peter arrived, that they should be knocked down to the highest bidder, and that the proceeds should be handed over to the college chaplain for charitable uses.

At sight of Peter these proceedings were interrupted. It was admitted that Peter had first claim.

"Peter," they said, "has suffered."

"I have an idea," said a man from the colonies. "I know what Peter would like to do."

Peter was racked with headache, and sick with a sense of futility.

"Shut up, you fools," he growled at them.

"Peter is ungrateful after all we have done for him; but we know what Peter would like to do with these pretty things. He would like to wrap them up in a parcel, and send them to St. James' Palace. Won't the Lord Chamberlain be surprised? We will enclose a schedule—List of Garments Discarded by Principal Lady under the Aegis of the Lord Chamberlain at the Oxford Theatre on the Fourteenth Instant."

"There cannot be a schedule," said another wag. "How are we to name these pretty things?"

"Our definitions will be arbitrary. Here, for instance, is a charming trifle, fragrant as flowers in April. Mark it down as 'A Transparency—Precise Function Unknown.'"

"Camisole," suggested a voice.

"Will the expert kindly come forward?"

It seemed hours before Peter, after much perfunctory ribaldry, was left alone with his remorse. The little heap of white garments accused him from the table of rowdiness and vulgarity. They filled his room with the scent of violets, and he remembered now the eyes of the woman he had so rudely frightened.

In the immediate future he saw the red tape of being formally sent down—a grave reprimand from the authorities, twinkling amusement from the Warden. They would treat him like a child. Had he not behaved like a child? All his fine passion had turned to ridicule. Peter, solitary in his room, found comfort in one thought alone. The world was waiting for him in London, where he would be received as a man, and be understood—where passion and a keen mind could be turned to high ends and worthily expended. He accused authority of his excesses, and dedicated himself afresh to resist and discredit his rulers. He was now a responsible revolutionary, with a hard world in front of him to be accused and beaten down. He thought again of his father—now a bright legend of intellectual revolt.

Next day Peter listened quietly to all that was said to him, receiving as of course an intimation that he was finally expelled from the College. This time the funeral was spared. Peter's friends were too busy packing for the vacation. His last farewell was spoken on the platform of Oxford station. Marbury, returning for a night to college, hailed him as he jumped from the cab.

"Hullo, Peter," he said at once. "You're a famous man!"

"Don't rot."

"Have you seen the local paper?"

"Why?"

"There are some rather good headlines," answered Marbury, unfolding the sheet.

RAID UPON THE OXFORD THEATRE
SUDDEN UPROAR
DESTRUCTION OF STAGE PROPERTIES
PRINCIPAL LADY PROSTRATED WITH SHOCK

He finished reading, and handed the paper to Peter.

"What on earth have you been doing?" he asked, as Peter seized and devoured it.

Peter ran his eye over the lines. Reported in the common form of a local scribe it read like a drunken brawl.

"Were you tight?" asked Marbury briefly.

"No, I was not tight," Peter snapped. "Look here, Marbury," he continued, "this wasn't a picnic. It was damn serious."

"Serious?"

"It was a protest."

"This is interesting," said Marbury. "What was it about?"

"It was a protest," Peter declared with high dignity, "against the censorship of stage plays."

Marbury looked at Peter for a moment. Then went into peals of laughter. Peter looked at him intending to kill.

"Don't be angry, Peter. I don't often laugh. But this is funny."

"I don't agree with you."

"Peter, dear boy, come away from your golden throne."

Marbury smoothed his face. "I suppose this means you're going down for good."

"Thank Heaven for that!"

"Look me up in London. I'm going down myself next term."

"Sick of it?" asked Peter.

"Not at all. But my uncle is far from well, and I'm next man on the estate. I have just been seeing the lawyers."

"We're going different ways, Marbury."

"Stuff."

"I'm in the other camp," Peter insisted.

"Very well," said Marbury cheerfully; "when you're tired of the other camp remember you've a friend outside. Good-bye, and good-luck."

Peter could not resist Marbury's good temper. He was beginning to feel in the wrong.

"Marbury," he said, "why am I always rude?"

Marbury smiled into Peter's lighted face:

"You were born younger than most of us. Meantime, your train is moving."

Peter scrambled into a passing carriage, and Marbury threw his luggage in at the window.

Peter waved him a friendly farewell, and retired to reflect upon his inveterate want of grace.

Marbury looked after the train in smiling meditation. He expected to see Peter within the year. He rather enjoyed the prospect of Peter loose among the intellectuals of London. He knew what these people were like.