First he would exhaust clearly and forcibly upon paper its thousand absurdities. Peter wrote far into the night, caught in a frenzy of inspired logic. Having argued his position point by point, having rooted it firm in reason, morality, and justice, he flung loose the rein of his indignation. He ended by the first light of day, and read over his composition in a glow of accomplishment. Surely this conspiracy must collapse in a shout of laughter. He took his MS. to a friend who at that time was editing the principal undergraduate magazine. Half an hour later he returned to his room gleaming with fresh anger. His friend had refused to publish his MS., saying it was too rude, and that he did not want to draw the evil eye of authority. Peter called him coward, and shook his fist under the editorial nose. In the evening he arranged with a local publisher to print a thousand copies in pamphlet form. Later he attended a seminar class under the Vicegerent, and at the end of the hour waited to speak with him. "Well, Mr. Paragon?" Peter was outwardly calm, but for sixty interminable minutes he had boiled with impatient anger. "Sir, I wish to resign from the seminar." The Vicegerent detected a tremor of suppressed excitement. He looked keenly at Peter. "What are your reasons?" he asked. "I need more time for private reading." "For example?" "I am interested in the modern theatre." Peter had intended merely to resign. He had not intended to offer reasons. But he could not resist this. The words shot rudely and clumsily out of him. The Vicegerent saw a light in Peter's eye. He was a man of humour, and he smiled. "H'm. This, I take it, is a sort of challenge?" he said. "It is a protest," Peter suggested. The Vicegerent twinkled, and Peter helplessly chafed. The Vicegerent put a gentle hand upon his arm. "Well, Mr. Paragon, I'm sorry your protest has taken this particular form. I shall be sorry to lose you. However, your protest seems to be quite in order. So I suppose you are at liberty to make it." "And to publish my reasons?" Peter flared. "I have published mine," smiled the Vicegerent. He took up a copy of the Oxford magazine, underlined a brief passage in blue pencil, and handed it to Peter. Peter read: "The Vicegerent has decided that _Gingerbread Fair_ is not a suitable play for performance at the Oxford Theatre. He does not think the moral of the play is one that can suitably be offered to an audience of young people. It will be remembered that this play was licensed by the Lord Chamberlain only after serious consideration of its ethical purport." Peter choked. "These are not reasons," he flamed. "Mr. Paragon," said the Vicegerent, "this is not for discussion." Peter dropped the magazine upon the table between them and went from the room without a word.