‘One quastion at a time, my lad,’ answered the big Highlander. ‘They are electin’ a Lord Rector; the ploy will gang on for a week or ten days yet. And they vote in “nations,” according to the part o’ the country they belong to. I was born in the Duke’s country, and consequently my vote is worth conseederably more than that o’ yon wee spectacled callant who was kittled in the Gorbals, for example.’ ‘I was born in Kyleshire,’ said Alec. ‘Then you’re Rothseiana,’ said the stranger, ‘and your vote’s worth more than mine. I’d advise ye to choose at once, and put down your name at one club or the other, or they’ll tease your life out.’ ‘But who are the candidates?’ ‘Mr. Sharpe, and Lord Dummieden, of course.’ Alec knew Mr. Sharpe’s name as that of an ex-Cabinet Minister on the Liberal side, who had the reputation of being a scholar, but who had never written anything beyond two or three pungent articles in _The Debater_. ‘And who is Lord Dummieden?’ ‘What!’ answered the Highlander; ‘is it possible that you have never heard of the “History of the British Isles before the Roman Invasion,” in sixteen volumes, by the Right Honourable James Beattie, Viscount Dummieden, of Crumlachie?’ Alec gave an incredulous look, and the other laughed outright. ‘Don’t be offended,’ said the Highlander. ‘Have you matriculated yet? No? Come awa’ then, and I’ll show you the way.’ He passed his arm through Alec’s as he spoke, and led him to a tiny office in a corner of the quadrangle which was half filled with students. ‘What is your name?’ asked Alec’s new friend, as they stood waiting their turn to enter their names in the volume kept for the purpose. Alec told him. ‘Mine’s Cameron--Duncan Cameron. I’m a medical. This is my third year. Have you got lodgings?’ ‘Yes; at No. 210, Hanover Street. ‘Does your landlady look a decent body? I’ll come round and see if she has a room to spare for me,’ he added, without waiting for an answer. Presently Alec obtained, in exchange for one of his father’s one-pound notes, a ticket bearing his name, and the words ‘_Civis Universitatis Glasguenis_’ printed in large letters underneath. ‘That’s all right,’ said Cameron; ‘now come along, and I’ll show you the Professors’ Court. You have to call on the Latin and Greek professors, and get your class-tickets. The fee is three guineas each.’ He led Alec through an archway into a second and larger quadrangle, then across it and through another archway into a third. ‘That’s the museum,’ said Cameron, pointing to a building with handsome stone columns; ‘and that’s the library,’ he added, pointing to a narrow structure, built apparently of black stone, on the right. The two young men turned to the left, passed through an iron gateway, and found themselves in a gloomy and silent court, formed by the houses of the various professors, which, like the library, were black with smoke and soot-flakes.