We dined comfortably, and I got a good cigar for Sam afterwards. When the waiter had left the room he plunged into his story.
“You remember the day I was hauled up before that old ass of a magistrate. He jawed a lot and then fined me £3 4s. 6d., which you paid. Jolly decent of you. I hadn’t a shilling in the world, being absolutely stony broke at the time; so if you hadn’t paid—and lots of fellows wouldn’t—I should have had to go to gaol.”
“Never mind about that,” I said. “You’ve paid me back.”
“Still, I’m grateful, especially as I should have missed the spree of my life if I’d been locked up. As it was, thanks to you, I walked out of the court without a stain on my character.”
“Well, hardly that. You were found guilty of riotous behaviour, you know.”
“Anyhow, I walked out,” said Sam, “and that’s the main point.”
It was, of course, the point which mattered most; and, after all, the stain on Sam’s character was not indelible. Lots of young fellows behave riotously and turn out excellent men afterwards. I was an undergraduate myself once, and there is a story about Sam’s father, now a dean, which is still told occasionally. When he was an undergraduate a cow was found tied up in the big examination hall.
Sam’s father, who was very far from being a dean then, had borrowed the cow from a milkman.
“There were a lot of men waiting outside,” said Sam. “They wanted to stand me a lunch in honour of my escape.”
“Your fellow-rioters, I suppose?”