Owen Wister's wry humor enlivens this comedic story of three sophomores during exam week at Harvard. Two frowning boys sat in their tennis flannels beneath the glare of lamp and gas. Their leather belts were, loosened, their soft pink shirts unbuttoned at the collar. They were listening with gloomy voracity to the instruction of a third. They sat at a table bared of its customary sporting ornaments, and from time to time, they questioned, sucked their pencils, and scrawled vigorous, laconic notes. Their necks and faces shone with the bloom of out of doors. Studious concentration was evidently a painful novelty to their features. Drops of perspiration came one by one from their matted hair, and their hands dampened the paper upon which they wrote. The windows stood open wide to the May darkness, but nothing came in save heat and insects; for spring, being behind time, was making up with a sultry burst at the end, as a delayed train makes the last few miles high above schedule speed. Thus, it has been since eight o'clock. Eleven was daintily striking now. Its diminutive sonority might have belonged to some church bell far distant across the Cambridge silence; but it was on a shelf in the room, a timepiece of Gallic design, representing Mephistopheles, who caressed the world in his lap

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