At the Porter’s advice, Frank took a cab and drove to the “Clarendon,” paid his bill, got his luggage together, and drove back to college. By this time the Porter had the list of the newly-allotted rooms. “Yours are No. 5, sir, three-pair right.” Frank stared. “No. 5 over the doorway, sir,” he then explained, pointing across the quadrangle to a doorway, over which Frank discerned the wished-for number; “three flights o’ stairs; the rooms on the right hand. No. 5, three-pair right--that’s how we call it. You’ll find your scout there. You’re too late for dinner. The hall-bell went twenty minutes ago.” Frank crossed the quadrangle, climbed the stairs, and found his rooms. They were neither large, nor particularly clean, as regarded paper and paint; and the carpets and coverings were decidedly dingy. But they were _his_ rooms, and he was an Oxford man! and that was _his_ scout bustling in from the rooms opposite to welcome him. After a little conversation, the fact of his ownership became still more apparent, for the scout proceeded to show him a collection of glass and china and household implements, on the merits and absolute necessity of which he enlarged. The mere transfer of glass and china supplies a nice little addition to the scout’s perquisites. The articles are, in the first instance, purchased by some undergraduate who prefers his own choice to what his scout has ready to offer him. He, on leaving his rooms, bequeaths them to his scout. Custom is so tyrannical in Oxford. The scout sells the articles to the next tenant, who, in his turn, bequeaths them to the same willing legatee, when again they are sold to the new-comer. How long this goes on it is hard to say. Sometimes the smooth course is interrupted by some strong-minded undergraduate, who, ignoring custom, takes his effects with him when he leaves. The little bill was as follows:-- FRANK ROSS, ESQ., _to_ WILLIAM GREEN.