Suddenly Gav rose, crossed the room, and drew open the curtain of the tiny window. There was a dull glow in the dark skies. “See, David,” he said very softly, “the dawn is breaking over Ploumenar’ch-lez-Quémouk.” * * * * * It was. CHAPTER XI SPATE David was deputed to go up to Oxford a few days before Michaelmas term began, to make all necessary arrangements with printers, street vendors, bill-posters and the local representatives of Labour and Jacobite organizations. He went. His honest admixture of generous enthusiasm and British common sense favourably impressed these humble proletarians, and practical details were soon settled. Gaveston of course had that sure instinct for flairing the right man for the right job which marks the leaders of the twentieth century, and when he stepped from his comfortable first-class carriage on to the Oxford platform, it was no surprise to find that the city bore the imprint of David’s devoted labours. Every available inch of advertising space was covered. +---------------------------+ | =OUT ON MONDAY.= | | =No. 1 of= | | =THE MONGOOSE,= | | =edited by= | | =GAVESTON FFOULIS.= | | | | =GOD SAVE KING RUPERT!= | +---------------------------+ The posters were everywhere--on college gates and sandwichmen, in the windows of the Bodleian, and, at nightfall, vast sky signs were to curve in flashing splendour from Carfax to Magdalen. Round them all day gathered excited groups of townsmen and gownsmen, eagerly discussing the symbolism of the intertwined hammers and roses which formed its tasteful border Such was their absorption that few noticed the aristocratic figure whirling past them in a hansom-cab, who still held on this Thursday afternoon the secrets which Monday was to reveal. For Gaveston the sight of these crowds was moving: and, as he drove up George Street, he remembered that echoing cave on the rock-bound Breton coast, and the warm sand, and David’s questioning “Power?”… * * * * * On Friday Gav set to work, and went through the “copy,” as he had already learned to call it. The supply of verse was enormous, political articles were plenteous and violent, and, in anticipation of a regular series of “Oxford Celebrities,” each member of the reading party had anonymously penned a short, witty and highly appreciative autobiography. But Gaveston’s editorial instincts told him that the individual note was somehow missing. Yes, _The Mongoose_ must be something different from all that had gone before--the _Letters of Junius_, _The Yellow Book_, _The Chameleon_, _The Spectator_, _The Palatine Review_. All must be outdone, and for a moment the task seemed almost baffling.