The University was at war. Not for the first time in its glorious history. Troops had garrisoned his college in the Civil Wars. It had melted down its plate for Charles the First. If it had possessed a boat-house it would have given it loyally to the King. Yet that was between two and three hundred years ago. Baltazar had the modern and not the archæological instinct. Conditions were different in those days. But now, in the second decade of the twentieth century, to be confronted with his remote, innocent college boat-house thus drawn, a vital though tiny unit, into the war, spurred his imagination to a newer comprehension of the world-convulsion to which he had been but recently awakened. If the war could reach and grip a pretty balconied shed on the River Cam, in what other infinite ramifications through the whole of the national life did its tentacles not extend? As he retraced his steps to the town, the bombing of Spendale Farm and the commandeering of his college boat-house appealed to him as the two most significant facts of the war. * * * * * He stood in the gateway under the groined roof by the porter’s lodge of his own college. The porter on duty, a young, consumptive-looking man, appeared at the door. Baltazar said: “I am an old member of the college, and I’ve been abroad for many years. I wonder if there’s anybody in residence whom I used to know.” “It depends upon who you want to see, sir.” Baltazar searched the young man’s face. “First”—he snapped finger and thumb—“yes, first, where’s Westmacott?” “My father, sir? He’s feeling his age, and having a bit of a holiday. Did you know him, sir?” “Of course I did. He was senior porter when I was an undergraduate. He must be about a hundred and ten.” “No, sir, only seventy-five,” smiled the young man. “Who’s master now?” “Dr. Barrett, sir.” “Is he up?” “Not for the moment, sir.” “What about Mr. Westgrove?” “Westgrove? Oh yes, sir. He died a long time ago. When I was a boy, sir.” “Well, who is there in residence?” The younger Westmacott rattled off a string of unfamiliar names. “I’m talking of twenty years ago,” said Baltazar. “What about Mr. Raymond?” “He’s Professor of Economics at—at one of those new sort of universities, sir.” The Cambridge-trained servitor’s tone expressed both regret at Mr. Raymond’s decline and scorn of the new sort of universities. “Mr. Sheepshanks——?” “Dr. Sheepshanks now, sir. _Honoris causa._ Just before the war.” “Well, Dr. Sheepshanks then,” said Baltazar, rather impatiently. “Oh, he’s always here, sir. He’s senior tutor.” “Is he in?” “I haven’t seen him go out to-day. I’m pretty sure he’s in, sir. Letter E, New Court.” “Thanks,” said Baltazar, and went in search of Sheepshanks, through the familiar courts.