That afternoon began the more serious of Jinnet’s experiences of’ divinity students. Nine young gentlemen with thick walking-sticks visited Tod’s apartment _en masse_; the strains of “Mush Mush, tu-ral-i-ady,” bellowed inharmoniously by ten voices, and accompanied by the beating of the walking-sticks on the floor, kept a crowd of children round the close-mouth for hours, and somewhat impeded the ordinary traffic of the street. “There must be a spree on in auld Mac-Pherson’s,” said the tenement. When Erchie came home he found Jinnet distracted. “Oh, whit a day I’ve had wi’ them students!” she wailed. “But look at the money ye’re makin’ aff your room,” said her husband. “Wi’ whit ye get frae Tod, ye’ll soon hae enough for the motor, cairrage and a yacht forbye.” “I’m feart to tell ye, Erchie,” said Jinnet, “but I havena seen the colour o’ his money yet.” “Study! study!” said Erchie. “Ye canna expect the puir lad to be thinkin’ even-on aboot his lessons, and learnin’ Latin and the rest o’t, no’ to mention ‘Mush Mush,’ and still keep mind o’ your twa or three paltry bawbees.” “I mentioned it to him on Setturday and he was rale annoyed. He yoked on me and said I was jist as bad as the weedow he lodged wi’ afore; that he was shair I was gaun to let the tear doon-fa’. He gied me warnin’ that if I let the tear doon-fa’ he wad leave.” “If I was you I wad start greetin’ at yince,” said Erchie. “And he’ll leave onywye, this very Setturday.” That afternoon the students were having a torchlight procession, when, as usual, most of them marched in masquerade. It was the day of the Rectorial Election, and the dust of far-flung pease-meal--favourite missile of the student--filled the air all over the classic slopes of Gilmorehill. It had been one of Erchie’s idle days; he had been in the house all afternoon, and still was unbedded, though Jinnet for once had retired without waiting the home-coming of her lodger. There came a riotous singing of student’s along the street, accompanied by the wheezy strains of a barrel-organ, and for twenty minutes uproar reigned at the entrance to the MacPherson’s close. Then Tod came up and opened the door with his latch-key. He had on part of Erchie’s professional habiliments--the waiter’s dress-coat and also Erchie’s Sunday silk hat, both surreptitiously taken from a press in the lobby. They were foul with pease-meal and the melted rosin from torches. On his shoulders Tod had strapped a barrel-organ, and the noise of it, as it thumped against the door-posts on his entry, brought Erchie out to see what was the matter. He took in the situation at a glance, though at first he did not recognise his own clothes. “It’s you, Mr Tod!” said he. “I was jist sittin’ here thinkin’ on ye slavin’ awa’ at your lessons yonder in the Deveenity Hall. It maun be an awfu’ strain on the intelleck. I’m gled I never went to the college mysel’, but jist got my education, as it were, by word o’ mooth.”