the society the host of the evening always acted as chairman.

"The meeting will please come to order," said Forbes. "Brother
Scorpions, what is your pleasure? Has the secretary anything to
report?"

The gatherings of the Scorpions were pleasingly devoid of
formality, and untrammeled by parliamentary conventions. There
were no minutes, and the only officer was a secretary who sent
out postal cards each week, reminding the members of the time and
place of the next meeting.

King, puffing happily at a large pipe, declared that no official
business required attention.

"Then I call upon Falstaff for his delightful paper on Rabelais,"
said Forbes.

A small electric reading lamp was propped behind Carter's head,
and the Scorpions disposed themselves to listen. Carter pulled an
untidy manuscript from his pocket, and after an embarrassed
cough, began to read.

The general tenor of an undergraduate essay on Rabelais, intended
for the intimacy of a fireside circle, may readily be guessed.
The general thesis of the composition was of course to prove that
Rabelais was by no means the low-minded old dog of Puritan
conception; or, as Carter put it, that he was "not simply a
George Moore"; but that his amazing writings bore witness
throughout to a high and devoted ethical purpose. It is even