“A Clark Russell of an evening!” said Carter, stretching his golfing brogues to the blaze. “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.