Holworthy looked on a moment in silence, and tried to pull an idea out of his moustache. "What is the matter with you, Jack?" he asked, gently. "Nothing--only that I am such a poor sort of a thing. No ambition, no backbone, no sand. Just a worthless, dissipated loafer. Let's go lush up with the rest of the crowd,--that is all I'm good for." "Don't talk like a fool," replied Hollis, by way of comfort. "A disgrace to the University. Haven't you always told me the same thing?" asked Jack, with a ghastly grin. "That is no reason why you should think so yourself and get so blue about it. I never thought you would ever take it to heart so. You know I never meant half that I said. I used to lay it on thick in hopes that a little would soak in." "I wish it had all soaked in long ago," answered Jack, ruefully. "Don't take any of it back, old man; you haven't soured me. Come along, let's go back to the old gang. You are all a very bad lot and don't properly appreciate my faults; even you, you old prig. Come along, Blathers." He tucked his arm through Holworthy's and they went back to the hotel, Hollis musing much. Meanwhile, in the billiard-room the good work was going on to Ned Burleigh's deepest gratification. He himself, mounted on the pool-table, was beating time with a broken cue for a choir of sweet singers. They had cheered each member of the crew and the coxswain, declaring in the time-honored measures that each was a jolly good fellow, and intimating the mendacity of any one who might deny the fact. Grateful for his degree, and being in a broad and liberal frame of mind, Burleigh had also proposed each member of the Faculty of Harvard College for similar honors, prefacing each nomination with a few well-chosen remarks. "And now, dearly beloved brethren," said he, "omitting the next fifty-three stanzas, let us all unite in singing the one hundred and forty-fifth; and as I look upon your happy, up-turned faces, I cannot help being touched by the spirit of those beautiful lines. All sing!" The earnest chorus roared, with cheerful zeal, the one hundred and forty-fifth verse, as exhorted. "What ho!" shouted the Lord of Misrule, "What is yon tall form i' the doorway. Is it the melancholy Jacques, forsooth? Or is it our long-lost wandering Brother Rattleton returning to the fold? Pull off his coat, somebody, and look for strawberry-marks. Joy, joy, mark his old time smile! Throw him up here. Once more now, all sing, 'For he's a jolly good fellow!'" III.