little applause.

The night advanced, and they grew riotous. The lord and his tutor were
for _sporting the door of a glum_: that is, breaking into the chamber
of a gownsman who loves study. Hector vociferously seconded the
motion, but the fellow and the master of arts cunningly endeavoured to
keep them quiet, first by persuasion, and, when that was ineffectual,
by affirming the students they proposed to attack _sported oak_: in
plain English, barred up their doors. Had they been without the walls
of the college, there would have been a riot; but, having no other
ventilator for their magnanimity, they fell with redoubled fury to
drinking, and the jolly tutor proposed a rummer round--'D----n me,'
said Hector, 'that's a famous thought! But you are a famous deep one,
d----n me!'

The rummers were seized, the wine poured out, and his lordship began
with--'D--mn--t----n to the flincher.' Who should that be? I,
the freshman? Oh, no! For that night, I was too far gone in good
fellowship.

This was the finishing blow to three of us. Hector fell on the floor;
his lordship sunk in his chair; and I, after a hurrah and a hiccup,
began to _cast the cat_: an Oxford phrase for what usually happens to
a man after taking an emetic. Happily I had not far to go, and the
fellow and the master of arts had just sense enough left to help me
to my chamber, where at day light next morning I found myself, on the
hearth, with my head resting against the fender, the pain of which
awakened me.