a certain something about them which excites both awe and delight, but
they are never quite the same thing as a college head-porter. There
may be weak spots in the profession, and indeed in one or two of the
less self-respecting colleges the head-porters scarcely rise above the
level of the Dons; but these are distinctly exceptional. As a class
they stand, as I said, amongst the dignified things of life.

Parsons is our head-porter, and perhaps he is the sublimest of them
all. Freshmen raise their squares to him, and Oriental students can
rarely bring themselves to enter the porter's lodge during their first
term without previously removing their shoes. Few except fourth-year
men have the temerity to address him as "Parsons" to his face; it
seems such an awful thing to do, like keeping a chapel in bedroom
slippers or walking arm-in-arm with a Blue. You feel awkward about it.

In order to give you a shadowy idea of Parsons' majesty I must hark
back for a moment to a certain day in November, 1914, when Biffin and
I, after a brief dalliance with the C.U.O.T.C., left Cambridge to join
our regiments. It was pouring with rain, but we were elated in spirit;
we had our commissions; things were going to happen; we felt almost
in case to jostle a constable. As we passed out through the porter's
lodge Parsons sat at his table, imperturbable and austere, his eagle
eyes flashing from beneath his bushy brows and his venerable
beard sweeping his breast. At that moment Biffin, overwrought with
excitement, forgot himself.

"Cheerio, Parsons, old cracker," he shouted wildly; "how's the weather
suit your whiskers?"

Then, realising the enormity of his act, he turned suddenly pale,