It occurred in an Ohio college, in the early days when the small college was struggling for an existence, and the students were struggling for an education. Many of the boys were very poor, and had to board themselves, doing all their cooking, sleeping and studying in the same room. To economize space they were used to keep their little store of groceries and provisions under the bed, and the bed was of the old bed-cord kind. The two particular boys of whom we write, for some reason or other, at this particular time, had a pan full of molasses under the bed.
Boys will be boys, poor as well as rich, and college boys the world over are full of all manner of tricks. These two chaps had concocted a very neat little scheme for getting on to the nerves of Professor John, who had charge of the building in which they were domiciled. For days and days they had been secretly carrying a lot of stones up into their room and depositing them in an empty barrel. When the barrel was full, the trick was ready to be pulled off just at bedtime, the trick consisting of simply rolling the barrel to the top of the corkscrew staircase, and letting her go Gallagher, when the perpetrators would skip to their room hard by, dive into bed and be sound asleep before Professor John could say Jack Robinson.
But—Professor John knew about all the possible combinations of the college boy, and could smell a hatching trick a mile away. Knowing that something was in the air, he had quietly stationed himself in a dark niche in the wall at the head of the staircase, and was watching the two night-begowned boys as they tugged with all their strength at the heavy barrel of stones, gently rolling it to the top of the stairs. “Don’t make a noise,” hoarsely whispered the one who was bossing the job, “and don’t let her go till all is ready and I give the word.”
When all was about ready to heave away, out stepped Professor John with a terrible “What’s—all—this!”
Away went the boys pell-mell to their room. They tried to slam the door shut, but the Professor’s foot got there first, and they dived into bed.
But alas! there had been a trick within a trick. Some one had cut the bed-cords! And as the two went down to the floor, one pitifully called out “Oh—we’re in the molasses!”
Professor John knew what that meant. He leaned up against the wall and laughed till he cried. “Let them go, poor fellows,” he said, as he went to his room, “they have been punished enough.”
ANY PORT IN A STORM
In a lecture on Carlyle, Moncure D. Conway related how the great writer was interviewed one morning by a very rough man in his neighborhood. A great revival being in progress in the vicinity, this man, well known as a very rough and profane fellow, had been attending the meetings and was “under conviction,” as the phrase went. Thinking that perhaps Mr. Carlyle might be able to give him some good and godly advice, he made a morning call on the celebrated writer, who unfortunately was just then enduring a most grievous attack of dyspepsia.
“Good morning, Mr. Carlyle,” said the man.