“Let Falstaff do it!” cried Blair. “He's the sentimentalist! But go easy on poor Joe. You know all Rhodes Scholars don't come from Indiana! Have a heart!”
“Do whatever you like to Joe!” cried Forbes; “But be careful with Kathleen! She's adorable! I'm going to write a ballade to her and mail it to her anonymously.”
“I wish there was some way of getting hold of her picture,” said Keith.
“Her picture?” said Graham. “Nonsense! Why not see the flapper herself? I'm going to bike over there on my Rudge, erb round till I find the street, and then skid like hell right on to her doorstep. I shall lie there in mute agony until I'm carried indoors.”
“I say, now, that's no fair!” cried Forbes. “I discovered her! Just because you've got a motor bike you mustn't take an advantage!”
“Look here,” said the Goblin, mildly, speaking from a blue cloud of Murray's Mixture, “we must all sign a protocol, or a mandamus or a lagniappe or whatever you law men call it, not to steal a march. I think we'd all like to meet the real Kathleen. But we must give a bond to start fair and square, and nobody do anything that isn't authorized by the whole club.”
“Right-O!” cried several voices.
“All right, then,” said the Goblin, “fill glasses everyone, and we'll solemnize the oath. Brother Scorpions, I do you to wit that we all, jointly and severally, promise not to take any steps toward making the acquaintance of said Kathleen until so authorized by the whole society. So help me God!”
They all drank to this, with some chuckles.
“What a lark if we could get Kathleen down for Eights Week!” said someone.