“Be hanged if it is n’t lonesome without old Starr.  Did you cut?  I should like to see him lounge in now with his pipe, and with feet on the mantel-piece proceed to expound on the duplex functions of the soul.”

“There—­misdeal,” said his vis-a-vis.  “Hope there’s been no misdeal for old Starr.”

“Spades, did you say?” the talk ran on, “never knew Starr was sickly.”

“No more was he; stouter than you are, and as brave and plucky as he was strong.  By George, fellows,—­how we do get cut down!  Last term little Stubbs, and now one of the best fellows in the class.”

“How suddenly he did pop off,—­one for game, honors easy,—­he was good for the Spouts’ Medal this year, too.”

“Remember the joke he played on Prof.  A., freshman year?” asked another.

“Remember he borrowed ten dollars of me about that time,” said Timmins’s partner, gathering the cards for a new deal.

“Guess he is the only one who ever did,” retorted some one.

And so the talk went on, mingled with whist-talk, reminiscent of me, not all exactly what I would have chosen to go into my biography, but on the whole kind and tender, after the fashion of the boys.  At least I was in their thoughts, and I could see was a good deal regretted,—­so I passed a very pleasant evening.  Most of those present were of my society, and wore crape on their badges, and all wore the usual crape on the left arm.  I learned that the following afternoon a eulogy would be delivered on me in the chapel.

The eulogy was delivered before members of our society and others, the next afternoon, in the chapel.  I need not say that I was present.  Indeed, I was perched on the desk within reach of the speaker’s hand.  The apotheosis was pronounced by my most intimate friend, Timmins, and I must say he did me ample justice.  He never was accustomed to “draw it very mild” (to use a vulgarism which I dislike) when he had his head, and on this occasion he entered into the matter with the zeal of a true friend, and a young man who never expected to have another occasion to sing a public “In Memoriam.”  It made my hair stand on end,—­metaphorically, of course.  From my childhood I had been extremely precocious.  There were anecdotes of preternatural brightness, picked up, Heaven knows where, of my eagerness to learn, of my adventurous, chivalrous young soul, and of my arduous struggles with chill penury, which was not able (as it appeared) to repress my rage, until I entered this institution, of which I had been ornament, pride, cynosure, and fair promising bud blasted while yet its fragrance was mingled with the dew of its youth.  Once launched upon my college days, Timmins went on with all sails spread.  I had, as it were, to hold on to the pulpit cushion.  Latin, Greek, the old literatures, I was perfect master of; all history was merely a light repast to me; mathematics I glanced at, and it disappeared; in the clouds of modern philosophy I was wrapped but not obscured; over the field of light literature I familiarly roamed as the honey-bee over the wide fields of clover which blossom white in the Junes of this world!  My life was pure, my character spotless, my name was inscribed among the names of those deathless few who were not born to die!