“Hunting the head of the college, do you mean, Professor?” asked the American.
“Certainly not,” replied the Don, with dignity. “That would not, under any circumstances, be permitted. If it were the Dean, now—but, oh no, certainly not the Head. What I refer to is the pursuit and collection of decapitated human heads, belonging generally to personal enemies of the
collector; it is a sport common in Borneo, and among other interesting, if primitive, nationalities. This pastime is, I understand, a favourite one with some students of the college. It is practised, I need hardly say, under the very strictest supervision; there must be a certificate signed by the British Resident, and a special written recommendation from the Director of the Craniological Department of the Museum. Under such restriction abuse is, of course, impossible. Then, again, there is golf; and it is hardly necessary to remind you that the Sahara provides perhaps the finest natural golf links in the world.”
“Well, Professor,” said the American, “I guess I will start. But how are we going to get right there, now? On the cars?”
“By the Cape to Cairo railway, when it is open,” the Tutor answered. “There will be a branch line. At present, the main line is, as you are aware, incomplete, and the branch is—well, in course of construction. Passengers are conveyed by motor. Or, if not by motor, by ox-waggon; trekking by the latter method is, I believe, the safer way; both, however, are, I understand, most commodious. I may explain to you that the present is a particularly auspicious occasion for your journey; you will travel
in the company of the new Junior Dean, whose society, I am sure, you will find delightful. His predecessor, a personal friend of my own, succumbed, I grieve to say, a few months ago—owing to the alleged inadequate supply of beef-steaks at a ‘Torpid’ breakfast. . . . Painful, but apparently inevitable. I need hardly say, the perpetrators of this insult have been rusticated for a whole term.”
“Is the Junior Dean a coloured person—a nigger?” asked the Rhodes Scholar.
“All the College officials,” explained the Don, “are, in the highest and best sense of the word, white men. Some of the Ordinary Fellows, it is true—Mr. Sargant’s scheme contemplated, you see, the election to fellowships of persons of local distinction. But our officials are, without exception, Oxford men. It would be impossible, otherwise, to preserve the Tone and the Tradition.”
“And now, gentlemen,” he continued, “I must not keep you too long. Procrastination is the thief of time, eh? and besides, your boat leaves Southampton to-morrow. All expenses on the journey refunded by the Timbuctoo Bursar, on application. Are your boxes unpacked? No? Then all you have to do is to alter the labels.”
“About the ‘Encyclopædia,’” said the spruce