‘I should suggest that Accrington takes to his virtuous couch,’ said Cobson, as we prepared to depart; ‘if you put a night-shirt over your clothes, and get into bed, you will naturally be too sleepy to answer any questions the Dean may ask. We’ll turn out the electric.’ We descended the stairs without attracting any attention, and just reached the shelter of Fatty’s rooms as the Rev. Fanny and the Junior Porter returned to Accrington’s staircase. Unfortunately, though Accrington was too sleepy, as Cobson predicted, to answer the Dean’s questions, Fanny spotted a stiff collar protruding from under the surplice, and retired saying that he would draw his own conclusions, and leaving a distinct chill behind him. Anyhow it was a very pleasant evening, and, as Accrington said, it was cheap at the price of four days’ gating. The two pounds which von Graussman paid the Sub-Treasurer, and the three weeks during which he remained in College after hall, presumably for the good of his health, are they not duly recorded in the Chronicles of Cecil College, and of Bartholomew Wilkinson, its Dean? III. CONCERNING THE THEATRE. It was quite sudden. We were walking down the Corn one Monday morning when a poster in front of the Hyde, depicting a lady whose skin was black, whose hair was red, and whose clothing consisted of a string of beads, attracted our attention. The legend above, ‘The Cannibal Girl, Grand Theatre, To-night,’ and the words below in large letters, ‘Queenie Hareham,’ appeared to move Freddy to tender memories. He gazed at the amazing specimen of modern art for fully three minutes, sighed heavily, and then went straight off to take tickets for Monday and Saturday. Squiff, who can celebrate any occasion, even that of his aunt’s death, with a light heart and much whisky, happily suggested a large lunch to some of the girls. We decided to give it in Freddy’s digs, for as Squiff, whose real name is the O’Rossa and who is descended from Michael, second King of Ulster, naïvely said, ‘They’re accustomed to that sort of thing at our place.’ Before the curtain fell on Monday evening fifty young gentlemen had sent fifty notes inviting one or more of the ladies of the company to any or every meal for the coming week. It is not remarkable in the light of subsequent events that Miss Kiddy Childe returned an unqualified refusal to all invitations and that the guardian of the stage-door paid off the back instalments of his rent on the following day. Freddy returned from the performance in a state of ecstatic delight, and repeatedly alluded to the good times that were coming. ‘What’s it like?’ I asked. ‘Glorious,’ replied Freddy, ‘and where Eileen takes Venus in the private theatricals scene its simply colossal. Here’s the programme.’ And this is what I read:-- THE CANNIBAL GIRL. _Book by Tottenham Kort. Lyrics by Frederick Freshleigh. Music by Peter Pedyll._