d merrily the little hours came on,
and song and laugh rather grew gayer than slackened. The strings of the
stays had long ago been cut, and the tresses, which were in the way of
the cigars, were thrown back in dishevelled elegance. The landlord found
his stuffing somewhat warm, and had laid aside half his fleshy
incumbrance. Every one was at his ease, and a most uproarious chorus had
just been sung by the whole strength of the company, when we heard the
ominous sound of a quiet double rap at the outer door.

"Who's there?" said one of the most self-possessed of the company.

"I wish to speak to Mr Challoner," was the quiet reply.

The owner of the rooms was luckily in no more _outre_ costume than that
of Sir Charles Marlow; and having thrown off his wig, and buttoned his
coat over a deep-flapped waistcoat, looked tolerably like himself as he
proceeded to answer the summons. I confess I rather hoped than
otherwise, that the gentleman, whoever he was, would walk in, when, if
he intended to astonish us, he was very likely to find the tables
turned. However, even college dons recognize the principle, that every
man's house is his castle, and never violate the sanctity of even an
under-graduate's rooms. The object of this present visit, however, was
rather friendly than otherwise; one of the fellows, deservedly popular,
had been with the dean, and had left him in a state of some excitement
from the increasing merriment which came somewhat too audibly across the
quadrangle from our party. He had called, therefore, to advise
Challoner, either to keep his friends quiet, or to get rid of them, if
he wished to keep out of the dean's jurisdiction. As it was towards
three in the morning, we thought it prudent to take this advice as it
was meant, and in a few minutes began to wend our respective ways
homewards. Leicester and myself, whose rooms lay in the same direction,
were steering along, very soberly, under a bright moonlight, when
something put it into the heads of some other stragglers of the party to
break out, at the top of their voices, into a stanza of that immortal
ditty--"We won't go home till morning." Instantly we could hear a
window, which we well knew to be the dean's, open above us, and as the
unmelodious chorus went on, his wrath found vent in the usual
strain--"Who is making that disturbance?"

No one volunteering an explanation, he went on.

"Who are those in the quadrangle?" Leicester and I walked somewhat