The first person whom Frank recognized on entering was Monkton, who was sitting in a stage-box, or at least in what does duty for a stage-box. He was dressed in a somewhat startling costume of ginger-colour check; a bright crimson necktie; his hat well on the side of his head; an enormous cigar in his mouth, which he appeared to be sucking rather than smoking. Between his knees, a gigantic bull-dog, whose efforts to plunge upon the stage or into the orchestra he was with difficulty controlling. Another man sat with him, dressed, if it were possible, in louder style than he; and from the tone of their voices they appeared not a little pleased with themselves and with the impression they were creating. The theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling; the University element decidedly predominating; the town being represented by a gallery full of that peculiar style of cad and cadger for which Oxford seems so famous. The smoke from pipes and cigars was far too thick to allow of recognition except at a very short distance; and Frank was much relieved to find that Monkton did not “spot” him. We need not describe the performance. The vulgar, strutting, swaggering comique, who supplies in fancied wit what he lacks in voice; the booming tenor, who yells “Tom Bowling” to give respectability to the entertainment; the brazen-throated “lady vocalist,” who disdains to be called a singer, and who certainly doesn’t deserve the title, are all too wearisome and sickening to merit notice, but for the lamentable fact that they are patronized by the undergraduate because the University authorities refuse to sanction anything better. The entertainment had not proceeded very far before Monkton had attracted the notice of the “star” of the evening, who, seeing that he had the audience on his side, commenced, in the spoken portion of his performance, to chaff “the gentleman in ginger.” Monkton’s position was too prominent for him to venture to respond; perhaps, too, he was not good at repartee. At all events, he drew back out of sight as far as possible, contenting himself with allowing his dog to put his forefeet on the cushion of the box and to growl an answer to the chaff. The next performer happened to be a young lady not quite so much at her ease as is usual in these persons. She was evidently frightened at the dog; and Monkton, seeing his opportunity, made the brute growl and spring forward as near the singer as possible. There were loud cries of “Turn him out!” The singer stopped in the middle of her song, burst into tears, and ran off at the wings. The manager came forward and expostulated. By this time the gallery was infuriated. Then Monkton let the dog go, and with a bound he cleared the orchestra and leapt on the stage. The manager, in evident trepidation, rushed off. The orchestra seized their instruments, and hastily began to decamp; some one in the confusion turned out most of the gas; and at that moment a cry of “Proctors!” was heard.