Kathleen | Page 3

"Don't you love a good drenching, downpouring
night? I do!" He was a burly full-blooded blond, extravagantly
facetious in convivial moments, and a mournful brooder in solitude.
King, better known as "The Goblin," was a dark, whimsical elf in thick
spectacles, much loved in the 'varsity dramatic society for his brilliant
impersonations. The Goblin said nothing as he sipped his coffee and
gazed at the fire.
"There you go again, Falstaff!" exclaimed Forbes to Carter, as he
unlocked a corner cupboard and drew out a bottle of port. "The
universal enthusiast! I believe you'll be enthusiastic about the
examiners that plough you!"
"What, Falstaff get ploughed?" said a vast and rather handsome
newcomer, flinging open the door without knocking. "I think he's down
for a ruddy First!" This was Douglas Whitney, of Balliol.
Carter's only answer to both these remarks was to drain a glass of the
port which Forbes was decanting.
"I say, Priapus, what vile port!" he said. "Is this some of the vintage

you crocked poor old Hinton with?"
"Any port in a storm, Falstaff," said the Goblin, mildly.
As Forbes was pouring out the coffee loud shouts of "Minters!" greeted
the next arrival. This was Johnny Blair of Tennessee and Trinity, the
only American among the Scorpions. Blair was a Rhodes Scholar
whose dulcet Southern drawl and quaint modes of speech were a
constant delight to his English comrades. His great popularity in his
own college was begun by his introduction of mint julep, which had
given him his nickname.
"Hello, Minters!" cried Forbes. "What cheer?"
"Large tabling and belly cheer," said Blair, quoting his favourite
Elizabethan author.
By the time Forbes had poured out eight cups of coffee and as many
glasses of wine, Keith, Graham, and Twiston had come in, making the
full gathering. There was much laughing and banter as the men stood
round the table or by the fire, lighting pipes and cigarettes, and helping
themselves to fruit and cake. Finally, when everyone was settled in a
semicircle round the fire, Forbes hammered his coffee cup with a spoon.
According to the custom of the society the host of the evening always
acted as chairman.
"The meeting will please come to order," said Forbes. "Brother
Scorpions, what is your pleasure? Has the secretary anything to
report?"
The gatherings of the Scorpions were pleasingly devoid of formality,
and untrammeled by parliamentary conventions. There were no minutes,
and the only officer was a secretary who sent out postal cards each
week, reminding the members of the time and place of the next
meeting.
King, puffing happily at a large pipe, declared that no official business
required attention.

"Then I call upon Falstaff for his delightful paper on Rabelais," said
Forbes.
A small electric reading lamp was propped behind Carter's head, and
the Scorpions disposed themselves to listen. Carter pulled an untidy
manuscript from his pocket, and after an embarrassed cough, began to
read.
The general tenor of an undergraduate essay on Rabelais, intended for
the intimacy of a fireside circle, may readily be guessed. The general
thesis of the composition was of course to prove that Rabelais was by
no means the low-minded old dog of Puritan conception; or, as Carter
put it, that he was "not simply a George Moore"; but that his amazing
writings bore witness throughout to a high and devoted ethical purpose.
It is even conjecturable that Carter may have said _puribus omnia pura_;
but if he did so, it was with so droll an accent that his audience laughed
again. At all events his reading was punctuated with cheery applause,
and at the conclusion the Scorpions renewed their acquaintance with
those historic affinities whiskey and soda. Discussion was brisk.
The meditative Goblin then was called upon for his poems; and, after
becoming hesitation, unfolded a sheaf of verses. His rhymes were
always full of quaint and elvish humour which was very endearing. His
ballade with the refrain "When Harry Baillie kept the Tabard Inn," was
voted the best of the six he read.
But the event of the evening was to be the serial story, which Forbes
had been appointed to begin. A new round of refreshments was
distributed, and then the host took his place under the reading lamp.
"This needs a word of explanation," he said. "Having the whole
vacation to work on this, naturally I did nothing until tea time this
afternoon. I didn't even have an idea in my head until yesterday. About
four o'clock yesterday afternoon I was strolling down the Broad in
desperation. You know when there is some hateful task that has to be
done, one will snatch at any pretext for postponing it. I stopped in at
Blackwell's to look for a book I wanted. Up in one corner of the shop,
lying