CHAPTER IV
A STRANGE DUEL—BAD BOYS’ PRANKS
Some of the greatest treats Sandie enjoyed were his invitations out to breakfast with his professors, some even whose classes he was not yet attending inviting him. He could hardly have told you which of these he liked best to breakfast with. There was old Dr. Brown, for example, who filled the Greek chair, a very ugly but highly intellectual man, who spoke like a Northumbrian, with a burr or rattle in the throat, and whom, as he preferred the Doric dialect, the students had nicknamed “The Dorian.” The Dorian, on ordinary days, used to finish his breakfast on the street, and might be met in short cuts any morning eating a bap.[6] But on days when he had students to breakfast, he was all there indeed, and up betimes. He himself seemed blessed with the appetite of a Highland hunter, and he made the students eat consumedly. But it was also a feast of reason and flow of soul, and the number of racy anecdotes he told without apparent effort during the breakfast-hour was marvellous; so too was the number of buttered baps he got down.
Then there was Dr. Maclure, Professor of Humanity, that is, he filled the Latin chair. A little man, perky, proud, and fat. He was an Englishman, but a great admirer of Burns, whom he was constantly quoting. The students called him “Cockie Maclure,” but it is to be hoped he did not know this. However, breakfast with him, although not such a heavy meal as that with the Dorian, was always most enjoyable.
Sandie used to think he would give a good deal could he only speak English with so charming an accent.
Then there was poor Maxwell, so well known in the scientific world—brown haired, handsome, thoughtful, and wise; he always had some scientific marvel to tell his students about during breakfast. He was always smiling, but never laughed a deal. I suppose he had an idea that strong tea was not good for young fellows, for he invariably filled the cup half up with rich delicious cream before pouring in the beverage.
Poor Maxwell! he is dead and gone, and great loss his death has been to the world.
. . . . . .
Would my young reader fight a duel if called out? I should not advise him to, though I myself have once or twice been foolish enough to appear on the field and duly take my stand to shoot and be shot at.
But in Sandie’s days duelling was not entirely unknown among the students. One King’s College student sent his bullet through the left arm of his opponent. Honour was declared to be satisfied after this, as well it might have been.