“Mightier than the sword it is, David, you know.” David agreed. And so was conceived the new review of politics, art, literature, life, the drama, music, religion and ethnology, which was to galvanize Oxford, and through Oxford, England, in the fast-approaching term. It was daring in conception, but it was characteristic of the man. Would Mongo contribute? That was the first question to be decided. And when the great plan was unfolded to him, and his assistance asked, the fresh, rosy face of the aged veteran lit up. But “Can’t be done, I’m afraid, Gav,” he said with a shake of his curious coloured locks. “The senior members might object, you see.” It was a disappointment, but, nothing daunted, the collaborators set out to find a title for their paper which should adequately embody its ideals. And this proved a harder task than might have been expected from so brilliant a party. _Young Oxford_ was put forward in vain. _The New Wallace_ was ruled out as parochial. David’s suggestion was _The University Echo_, and _The Parnassian_ did not lack a few supporters. Several showed enthusiasm for _The Cherwell_, but Gaveston it was who won the unanimous suffrage of all with _The Mongoose_. Everyone was delighted, and Vere O’Neill, the chartered artist of the party, quickly etched on a scrap of paper lying to hand a clever woodcut of that engaging bird. Gav put the finishing touches to it with a tube of water-colours, and so the title, and the cover of at least the first issue, were ready. A policy? That was surely the next thing to be gone into, and again there were differences while they sat up late one night over a friendly bowl of _absinthe_, the national drink of the country. Outside the cottage the Atlantic hurricanes battered upon the shutters. Mongo considered that the problems of the Near East were perhaps inadequately represented at Oxford. But O’Neill was strong for a judicious blending of socialism and articraftiness. “Back to Marx!” was his cry. It was a daring appeal, but all felt that perhaps his quick Hibernian imagination might carry them too far. Other tempting suggestions, philanthropic, poetic, imperialist, flashed in the shadowy room, but David brought a refreshing current of cool sanity into the somewhat hectic debate. “I think Gaveston had better decide,” he said. And they knew he was right. At once Gaveston rose from his seat and stood by the fireplace. His address was a masterpiece of editorial tact.