No. I
John Brown.
Did you ever happen to know a man who spent a whole Christmas vacation in Oxford, and survived it? I did. And this is how it came to pass.
"Frank," said the governor one evening after dinner, when the conversation had turned upon my approaching return to college, and the ticklish question of supplies had been disposed of—"when the deuce do you mean to go up for your degree? I have a notion this next term is your fifteenth, young man?"
"Why no, sir—that is, not exactly; you know"——
"Oh! true—I forgot that confounded rustication business. Well, it's your fourteenth at all events, and I think that's enough."
"Well, sir, I was thinking to have a shy at it after Christmas."
"Shy at it! You've always been shying at it, I think. I hope it mayn't end in a bolt, Master Frank!"
I laughed dutifully at the paternal wit, and promised to go to work in earnest the moment I reached Oxford.
This was a resolution announced periodically like the ballot question, and with much the same result. So the governor only shook his head, yawned, looked at the bottle, which stood between us nearly empty, and prepared apparently for an adjournment.