One of them—­the one with the always handsome and scholarly, at times soft and romantic, but tonight, dare-devil face, was easily recognizable as Edgar the Goodfellow, frequently appearing in the quite opposite character of Edgar the Dreamer, and commonly known as Edgar Poe.  His fellow cadets had dubbed him, “the Bard.”  Two of this young man’s companions were his room-mates in Number 28, “Old P,” and “Gibs,” and the third was a visitor from North Barracks.

Taps had sounded sometime since, and the Barracks were supposed to be wrapt in slumber, but for these young men the evening had just begun.  Several hours had elapsed since supper and it is a well-known fact that there is never a time or a season when a college boy is not ready to eat.  Someone suggested that politeness demanded they should entertain their guest with a fowl and a bottle of brandy from Benny Haven’s shop, and proposed that they should draw straws to determine which of the three hosts should fetch the necessary supplies.  They had no money, but the accommodating “Bard” agreed to sacrifice his blanket in the cause of hospitality; and armed with that and several pounds of tallow candles, “Gibs,” upon whom the lot had fallen, set forth to run the blockade to Benny’s.  This was a risky business, for the vigilance of Lieutenant Joseph Locke, one of the instructors in tactics who was also a sort of supervisor of the morals and conduct of cadets, was hard to elude.  As one of the Bard’s own effusions ran,

    “John Locke was a very great name;
      Joe Locke was a greater, in short,
    The former was well known to Fame,
      The latter well known to Report.”

The best that Benny would give, in addition to the bottle, for the blanket and candles, was an old gander, whose stentorian and tell-tale voice he obligingly hushed by chopping off its head.  Under cover of the darkness and the storm, “Gibs” succeeded in safely returning to the Barracks but not until his hands and his shirt were reeking with the gander’s gore.  “The Bard,” who was anxiously awaiting the result of the foraging expedition ventured outside to meet him.  When he beheld the prize, he exclaimed, in a whisper,

“Good for you!  But you look like a murderer caught red-handed.”

His own words, almost before they left his lips, suggested to him an idea for a mammoth hoax—­the best they had tried yet, he told himself.  He hastily, and in whispers, unfolded it to “Gibs,” whom he found all sympathy, then returned alone, to his friends in Number 28, reporting that he had seen nothing of their messenger, and expressing fear that he had met with an accident.

All began to watch the door with anxiety.  After some minutes it burst open and “Gibs,” who had carefully laid the gander down outside, staggered into the room, appearing to be very drunk and brandishing a knife, which he had rubbed against the fowl’s bleeding neck.  “Old P.” and the visitor from North Barracks, too frightened for words, sat as though rooted to their chairs, while “the Bard” sprang to his feet and in a horror-stricken voice, exclaimed,