taking refuge in the rooms of two of the "raggers." The lookout in the
quadrangle turned to walk quietly towards the porter's lodge. The Senior
Tutor--a spare tall man with a Jove-like brow--emerged from the library,
and stood on the steps surveying the broken glass.

"All run to cover, of course!" was his reflection, half scornful, half
disgusted. "But I am certain I heard Falloden's voice. What a puppy
stage it is! They would be much better employed worrying old boots!"

But philosopher or no, he got no clue. The quadrangle was absolutely
quiet and deserted, save for the cheeping of the swallows flitting
across it, and the whistling of a lad in the porter's lodge. The Senior
Tutor returned to the library, where he was unpacking a box of
new books.

The rioters emerged at discreet intervals, and rejoined each other in
the broad street outside the college.

"Vengeance is still due!"--said Falloden, towering among them, always
with the faithful and grinning Meyrick at his side--"and we will repay.
But now, to our tents! Ta, ta!" And dismissing them all, including
Meyrick, he walked off alone in the direction of Holywell. He was going
to look out a horse for Constance Bledlow.

As he walked, he said to himself that he was heartily sick of this
Oxford life, ragging and all. It was a good thing it was so nearly done.
He meant to get his First, because he didn't choose, having wasted so
much time over it, not to get it. But it wouldn't give him any
particular pleasure to get it. The only thing that really mattered was
that Constance Bledlow was in Oxford, and that when his schools were