It has always been one of our secret ambitions to cozen one of those impeccably smug young men who glide around examination halls, dealing out bluebooks, and making noisome speeches. But it appears that someone beat us to it. There was, it appears, a wager between two amiable fellows, the gist of which was that proctors were or were not worth their salt. And the upshot was that the more intelligent of the two had to prove his point.

Not long ago, therefore, he descended upon Memorial Hall, armed with pencils and with evil intent. He knew nothing about the course involved; for he was not enrolled. But he had borrowed textbooks for just this occasion. When the Examination began, he propped said books upon his desk and plied away prodigiously, without interruption, for some fifteen minutes. Tiring of the copyist's art, he then began peering at his neighbors' efforts. To no avail. After ten minutes of futile endeavor, he collected his belongings, strode to the door, and handed in his work. As he prepared to leave, the proctor called him back. Slightly perturbed, he returned, and stood, looking. "You have not signed your bluebook," the menial said. And that was all.