At this point Rabnon, the Brushwood Boy, was detected trying to set fire to the Lit. office with his cigarette stub. As the office was still damp from the presence of the preceding Board, no conflagration ensued. In the confusion, however, three poems by Freshmen were accidentally accepted.
Little Laird Fauntleroy wrote the Table of Contents laboriously, being jumped on every minute or so for misspellings which he was expected to commit, but which he carefully disguised by writing illegibly. Thus the time wore on.
“What would you do with a man who perpetrated this?” expostulated Cherrywold, holding up a poem with the inscription: “I’m very much afraid that this is worth publishing—Mercury.”
“It shows he has no soul!” exulted Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. “No one with a soul could have a face like his, anyway.”
“No personalities in Art,” cautioned Rabnon the politic.
In walked Roland at this juncture, smoking a poor cigar and holding in his nervous hands a large sheet of paper with a one-word correction of his latest poem.
“Here’s the man who wrote a sonnet in six-foot lines!” Han cried. A chorus of groans and hisses greeted the heeler.
“Any defense?” asked Cherrywold, while Han prepared to hit Roland over the head with his stick.
“He’s just been elected Chairman of the News,” said Mr. and Mrs. Stevens in explanation.
“What’s the News?” inquired Han, hand to ear.