and polished and starched, sat down at the Clarendon to celebrate this
triple majority. Upon that banquet age did not lay one hesitant touch.
The attainment of discretion was celebrated in what might almost have
been hailed as a debauch of youthfulness. Forty Good Eggs drank
forty-eight bottles of Perrier Jouet '93. They drank indeed the last
four dozen gages of that superb summer stored in the J.C.R., the last
four dozen lachrymatories of the 1893 sun, nor could it be said that
vintage of Champagne had funeral games unworthy of its foam and fire.
Forty Good Eggs went swinging out of the Clarendon about half-past nine
o'clock, making almost more noise than even the Corn had ever heard.
Forty Good Eggs went swinging along toward Carfax, swinging and singing,
temporarily deified by the last four dozen of Perrier Jouet '93. Riotous
feats were performed all down the High. Two trams were unhorsed. Hansoms
were raced. Bells were rung. Forty Good Eggs, gloriously, ravishingly
drunk, surged into the lodge. There was just time to see old Venner. In
the quiet office was pandemonium. Good Eggs were dancing hornpipes; Good
Eggs were steadying themselves with cognac; Good Eggs were gently
herded out of the little office as ten o'clock chimed. "Bonner! Bonner!"
the forty Good Eggs shouted, and off they went not to St. Cuthbert's,
but actually to the great lawn in front of New Quad. Third-year men when
they did come into college roaring drunk took no half-measures of
celebration. Excited freshmen and second-year men came swarming out of
Cloisters, out of Parsons' Quad, out of Cuther's to support these wild
seniors. What a bonfire it was! Thirty-one chairs, three tables, two
doors, twelve lavatory seats, every bundle of faggots in college and
George Appleby's bed. Somebody had brought Roman candles. O exquisite
blue and emerald stars! Somebody else had brought Chinese crackers as
big as red chimneys. O sublime din! Lonsdale was on the roof of
Cloisters trying to kill a gargoyle with hurtling syphons. Michael was
tossing up all by himself to decide whether he should tell the Senior
Tutor or the Warden what he really thought of him. A fat welterweight, a
straggler from New College, had been shorn of his coat-tails, and was
plunging about like an overgrown Eton boy. With crimson faces and
ruffled hair and scorched shirt-fronts the guests of the Twenty-firster
acclaimed to-night as the finest tribute ever paid to years of
discretion.

Ne