Thropper was in the midst of a very final story of first love coming out happily when tested by marriage, when three knocks were heard on our wall, given by the student in the next room: That was the signal that the Dean was stirring. Instantly the window was opened, our three visitors leaped out, and a few seconds later, when the Dean knocked on the door, Thropper met him innocently with the proposal, “Have a chair, sir?” and the Dean, glancing about merely said, with a pleasant smile, “I just thought I’d look in, that’s all.” When he left, we knew that when he went to the rooms of our three friends, upstairs, he would find them in their shirtsleeves poring over their books. I often saw him in the twilight or under the glow of lighted windows, this Dean performing his duty which, to a man of his fine, academic temper, must have been so incompatible: a tall, ungeared, gaunt-faced, tight-lipped man, stooped and stealthy, searching the campus with his glinting eyes, squaring his jaws as he approached windows where law-breakers were gathered, post-haste after delinquents! I chanced to be one among a half-dozen stout English hearts; at least they were English hearts when somebody proposed that it might be a patriotic act for us to celebrate, in a fitting, English manner, the birthday of Queen Victoria. On account of the un-American aspect of the proposed celebration it was deemed injudicious to ask the consent of the Dean, for we felt sure he would prohibit it. We were determined, however, to conduct a celebration that would be quiet, dignified, and memorable, without having in it any semblance of disorder. We also resolved to hold it on a Saturday evening, when the rules were not so strictly upheld. To this end, then, we persuaded the master of the dining-hall, who was also chef and baker, to fall into our scheme, though he was a loyal American. We engaged him to fry the steaks, and also gave him an English recipe for chipped potatoes.