“I wish there was some way of getting hold of her picture,” said Keith. “Her picture?” said Graham. “Nonsense! Why not see the flapper herself? I'm going to bike over there on my Rudge, erb round till I find the street, and then skid like hell right on to her doorstep. I shall lie there in mute agony until I'm carried indoors.” “I say, now, that's no fair!” cried Forbes. “I discovered her! Just because you've got a motor bike you mustn't take an advantage!” “Look here,” said the Goblin, mildly, speaking from a blue cloud of Murray's Mixture, “we must all sign a protocol, or a mandamus or a lagniappe or whatever you law men call it, not to steal a march. I think we'd all like to meet the real Kathleen. But we must give a bond to start fair and square, and nobody do anything that isn't authorized by the whole club.” “Right-O!” cried several voices. “All right, then,” said the Goblin, “fill glasses everyone, and we'll solemnize the oath. Brother Scorpions, I do you to wit that we all, jointly and severally, promise not to take any steps toward making the acquaintance of said Kathleen until so authorized by the whole society. So help me God!” They all drank to this, with some chuckles. “What a lark if we could get Kathleen down for Eights Week!” said someone. “Very likely Joe will have her here,” said Whitney. “You seem to forget that he's been rowing this course for some time.” They all scowled. “I wonder how many members of the 'varsity are called Joe?” Keith asked. “About three hundred, I dare say,” said Falstaff. “I tell you what we might do,” said Forbes. “When the yarn's finished we can send it to her, explain just how the whole thing happened, and ask permission to call. She's got a sense of humour, I'll swear!” “Balmy!” retorted Falstaff. “She'd probably be frightfully fed because you bagged her letter! 'S a hell of a thing to do, crib a lady's letter!” “It's a hell of a thing to do to leave it lying around!” cried Forbes, impenitent. “No quarter for Joebags! Let the punishment fit the crime.” “Well, you chaps, I've got to sheer off,” said Whitney. “It's nearly eleven and I've got an essay on the stocks. Cheer-o Priapus, I've had a ripping time.” “'Arf a mo,'” cried Forbes. “Who's to do the next chapter, and where do we meet next week?” “Falstaff!” cried several voices. “Why not do two chapters a week,” said Carter. “I'll do one, and Goblin can do another. Let's meet in my rooms.”