"Ah, I see."

While thus conversing we had reached a large granite building, connected with which was one of the most important stations of the elevated railway which ran around the Yard.

"This," said my Freshman, "is the College Chapel."

"Do you have voluntary prayers?"

The Freshman smiled. "No," he said, "the Faculty petition for it every year; but the Legislature has so far refused to grant them the indulgence."

"How long has this railroad been here?"

"More than half a century; we hope to have one to Boston in three or four years."

As he spoke we entered a handsome edifice and left the elevator at the third floor. In a gorgeously furnished room was a gentleman reclining on a red velvet sofa.

"This," said the Freshman, "is the Dean."

The Dean, on hearing himself mentioned, looked up from his novel and smiled affably. "Be seated, gentlemen," said he. "What will you take?" We took, and passed out. Not far from the Deanery was a five-story brick ice-house. In one end of this was confined an unhappy creature, loaded with chains. He sat on the remains of a dead and gone steam-radiator. Near by stood a tall clock which counted the hours of his captivity, except when he neglected to wind it up.

I shrank back in terror, saying, "Who is this miserable man?" And the Freshman replied, "He is officially known as the Borsair, a term whose derivation the Philological Society have not yet determined. Some twenty years ago he headed an insurrection of Janitors, or Janissaries, - there is an historical doubt. They were temporarily successful; but they enacted such an oppressive system of legislation that a counter-revolution was started, and on its success the Janissaries were banished and the Borsair imprisoned for life."

As we were leaving the prison a sudden thought flashed upon me. I asked the Freshman whether the ancient records were still preserved and were accessible. He thereupon conducted me to a building near the Dean's residence, and showed me a large and somewhat complicated machine.

"Write your question on a piece of paper and drop it into the hopper," he said, "and the automatico-phonographic attachment will answer."

So I wrote, "Did S. J. Tilden, 1883, receive a condition in Sophomore Themes?" A noise of confused rumbling and rattling came from the interior of the machine. Then a bell sounded, and the phonograph began, "He -" But here, alas, I awoke.