But, again—­would he?...  Frank seemed really in earnest about making his living permanently; and when Frank said that he was going do a thing, he usually did it!  And Jack Kirkby did not see himself leaving his own mother and sisters indefinitely until Frank had learned not to be a fool.

He lit his pipe at last; and then remembered the commission with regard to the saddle—­whatever that might mean.  He would stroll round presently and talk to the porter about it ...  Yes, he would go at once; and he would just look in at Frank’s rooms again.  There was the hammock to fetch, too.

But it was a dreary little visit.  He went round as he was, his hands deep in his pockets, trying to whistle between his teeth and smoke simultaneously; and he had to hold his pipe in his hand out of respect for rules, as he conversed with the stately Mr. Hoppett in Trinity gateway.  Mr. Hoppett knew nothing about any saddle—­at least, not for public communication—­but his air of deep and diplomatic suspiciousness belied his words.

“It’s all right,” said Jack pleasantly, “I had nothing to do with the elopement.  The Dean knows all about it.”

“I know nothing about that, sir,” said Mr. Hoppett judicially.

“Then you’ve not got the saddle?”

“I have not, sir.”

Frank’s outer door was open as Jack came to the familiar staircase, and his heart leaped in spite of himself, as he peered in and heard footsteps in the bedroom beyond.  But it was the bed-maker with a mop, and a disapproving countenance, who looked out presently.

“He’s gone, Mrs. Jillings,” said Jack.

Mrs. Jillings sniffed.  She had heard tales of the auction and thought it a very improper thing for so pleasant a young gentleman to do.

“Yes, sir.”

“There isn’t a saddle here, is there?”

“Saddle, sir?  No, sir.  What should there be a saddle here for?”

“Oh, well,” said Jack vaguely.  “I’ve come to fetch away the hammock, anyhow.”

Certainly the rooms looked desolate.  Even the carpets were gone, and the unstained boards in the middle seemed suggestive of peculiar dreariness.  It was really very difficult to believe that these were the rooms where he and Frank had had such pleasant times—­little friendly bridge-parties, and dinners, and absurd theatricals, in which Frank had sustained, with extreme rapidity, with the aid of hardly any properties except a rouge-pot, a burnt cork and three or four wisps of hair of various shades, the part of almost any eminent authority in the University of Cambridge that you cared to name.  There were long histories, invented by Frank himself, of the darker sides of the lives of the more respectable members of the Senate—­histories that grew, like legends, term by term—­in which the most desperate deeds were done.  The Master of Trinity, for example, in these Sagas, would pass through extraordinary love adventures, or discover the North Pole, or give a lecture, with practical examples, of the art of flying; the Provost of King’s would conspire with the President of Queen’s College, to murder the Vice-Chancellor and usurp his dignities.  And these histories would be enacted with astonishing realism, chiefly by Frank himself, with the help of a zealous friend or two who were content to obey.