“Don’t think of that, Fenwick Major!” I said.  “That’s all right!”

“Well, I won’t,” he said; “for what’s the use?  But Little ’Un said, ‘Don’t let the sun go down upon your wrath.’  ’And no more I will, Little ‘Un,’ says I. So I sent a boy after you, old man.”

Now, you fellows, don’t laugh; but there and then I read three or four chapters of the Bible—­out of Fenwick’s mother’s Bible—­the one she handed in at the carriage window that morning he and I set off for college.  I actually did and this is the Bible.

[Bentley and Tad Anderson do not laugh.

When I had finished, I said—­“Fenwick, I’m awfully sorry, but fact is—­I can’t pray.”

“Never mind about that, old man!” said he; “Little ’Un can pray!”

And Little ’Un did pray; and I tell you what, fellows, I never heard any such prayer.  That little girl was a brick.

Then Fenwick Major put out fingers like pipe-staples, and said—­

“Old man, you’ll give Little ’Un a hand—­after—­you know.”

I don’t know that I said anything.  Then he spoke again, and very slowly—­

“It’s all right, old boy.  Sun hasn’t gone down on our wrath, has it?”

And even as he smiled and held a hand of both of us, the sun went down.

Little brick, wasn’t she?  Good little soul as ever was!  Three cheers for the little wife, I say.  What are you fellows snuffling at there?  Why can’t you cheer?

II

MAC’S ENTERIC FEVER

Merry are the months when the years go slow, Shining on ahead of us, like lamps in a row:  Lamps in a row in a briskly moving town.  Merry are the moments ere the night shuts down.

  “Halleval and Haskeval.”

In those days we took great care of our health.  It was about the only thing we had to take care of.  So we went to lodge on the topmost floor of a tall Edinburgh land, with only some indifferent slates and the midnight tomcats between us and the stars.  The garret story in such a house is, medically speaking, much the healthiest.  We have always had strong views about this matter, and we did not let any considerations of expense prevent us taking care of our health.

Also, it is a common mistake to over-eat.  Therefore, we students had porridge twice a day, with a herring in between, except when we were saving up for a book.  Then we did without the herring.  It was a fine diet, wholesome if sparse, and kept us brave and hungry.  Hungry dogs hunt best, except retrievers.

In this manner we lived for many years with an excellent lady, who never interfered with our ploys unless we broke a poker or a leaf of the table at least.  Then she came in and told us what she thought of us for ten eloquent minutes.  After that we went out for a walk, and the landlady gathered up the fragments that remained.

It was a lively place when Mac and I lodged together.  Mac was a painter, but he had not yet decided which Academy he would be president of—­so that in the meantime Sir Frederick Langton and Sir Simeon Stormcloud could sleep in their beds with some ease of mind.