The Weekly, the medal its seal; the whole dangles before the waistcoat of the wearer, who appears conscious of his decoration and uncomfortably proud of it. He intends to present no such appearance; the entire matter is of no consequence to him and he would be chagrined to think that anyone would regard it otherwise. He is a newly-initiated member of the board.

In the course of time, when the room has completely filled with thirsty and voracious guests, a man is requested to play the piano. No one is impolite enough to urge him, nor has he the bad taste to demur excessively. Perhaps he accedes or perhaps he does not; sooner or later someone plays. Meanwhile a keg of beer is quietly broached and the trend of the crowd seems to be towards the corner where it stands; but there is no unseemly haste. A song, discovered in a stray college song-book is played by the pianist; a few join in the singing and waver through the chorus; others, perceiving something familiar about the air, essay to hum it. A popular melody of the day is struck up, the piano catches it with gusto and soon the whole room is singing vociferously. The "punch night" is beginning to be a success.

A little more beer, and pairs of men here and there are seen to display, suddenly, the symptoms of hilarity; they start songs and sing them in resonant tones, heads close together; they clank their steins and shout to friends across the room; in all, their attempt to exhibit a spirit of good-fellowship is laudable, but isolated-perhaps premature. Few other members of the party of visitors are even affected by the dregs of the punch or the first few steins of beer. The entire gathering is divided into groups of men whose acquaintanceship has antedated this particular night; now and again, a conscientious editor of The Weekly performs a few perfunctory introductions, but owing, possibly, to his ignorance of the names of the parties thus brought together, the formality is often ineffective. For it is not to be supposed that a Harvard man, however much he may have been drinking, would take advantage of his accidental proximity to another to intrude himself upon his. neighbor's attention.

The efforts of those who are boisterously inclined increase with time

and more join their ranks. That they may not have been sufficiently stimulated to warrant such abandon is, of course, never questioned; such a question would be rude in the extreme. Their purpose is obviously excellent and that should be, and generally is, enough.

A group has collected about the piano and song follows song. As the hour grows late, there is even an appearance of general enthusiasm. But the pianist has perhaps grown weary or received a suggestion from someone; he breaks into the chords of Home, Sweet Home, which is sung with feeling. Its effect is not immediate; a few still hang about the corner where steins are filled. The pianist, with possible inappropriateness, plays Good-Night, Ladies, at first softly, then with insistent reiteration. The crowd begins to dissipate at least, those who do not return at once to their rooms may be said to do so and the apartment is shortly almost deserted. The pianist dons his coat; a thoughtful editor shuts off the lights. The sanctum is left in darkness. and disorder.

The keg is yet half-full of beer!

Paxton Pattison Hibben.

SAM DODGE: LOBSTERMAN.

A thick fog-bank stretched across the mouth of Pollock Harbor like a closed door. At the channel-buoy, Sam Dodge rested on his oars, took a dorycompass out of the stern-locker, and laid it on the boards before him.

"South an' by west, to the dot," he murmured, "an' two miles and a quarter to go. It'll be cold out there." His hand trembled on the edge of the locker; then entered, and reappeared, clutching a brown bottle. Sam smiled as he saw it, and instinctively passed his other hand across his mouth. "I'll take just one swallow; it'll keep me warm.”

It was a long row, that two miles and a quarter. The fog closed in behind, like a gray curtain over the gray sea. The shifting wind, as it died, had left a quartering cross-chop, that kept slapping at the oars and shouldering the dory off her course.

"Curse this chop," said Sam. "My left arm's a' worn out with keepin' her head straight. It is cold out here." The locker was still open; the brown neck of the bottle showed just above the edge. Sam stopped rowing, and drank; then took up his oars again. "Grunt-grunt, grunt-grunt," the oars grumbled against their pins: "click" went the dory-compass when some large wave taxed its patience. No other sound broke the silence.

Sam Dodge's thoughts matched the day.

"The lobster-smack due day after tomorrow; an' here I only have sixty lobsters in the cage. No blankets this month, nor new oil-skins. Just the same old grub-pork, an' flour, an' beans, an' only one bottle o' whiskey."

Sam picked up the bottle again, and looked through the brown glass. "Not much left. I guess I'll take one more drink, though."

Then he went on rowing. The waves were bigger now, and the dory kept edging around, to meet them broadside on. Sam's left arm was quite tired, and more than once the dory rose in the trough for a full dozen strokes before Sam made a move to set it back on its course.

"It's queer, now," Sam was thinking, "I ain't caught twenty lobsters on the ledge this month. It seems as though the place was gettin' fished out. I've shifted the pots, an' I've changed the bait, but it don't do no good. An' it's funny, Jim Weeks, from the Neck, fishes on the western ledge, only half a mile away, an' they say his old blue dory comes in loaded chock full, every time he goes out. I guess my luck's gone. The devil's in the pots. Must be nearly there now. It is cold."

Sam shivered a little, and bent forward, where the bottle-neck showed under the locker-cover.

“Grunt-grunt, grunt-grunt," the oars began again. "Yes," said Sam, “I guess the ledge is played out. If I don't find lobsters today, I'll pick up the pots, an' set 'em along-shore. It's too far to row out here every day for nothin'. Ah, ye would, would ye?" as he saw the dory turning her flank to the waves. "Back ye go on yer course, an' there ye shall stay. I ought to see some o' the buoys now."

He rose to his feet, and balanced himself in the swaying dory, while he searched the fog ahead. No buoy in sight; nothing but the gray fog, the gray

waves.

What was that? "Tap, tap-tap, tap"-the sound of oars; and then, a bang, a rattle, the oars snapped in-board.

"Somebody out here in the fog," thought Sam. "Lost his bearin's I reckon, but why should he ship his oars? And my lobster-pots are right here somewhere." Then the idea came upon him, slowly, word by word. "Someone,-some-one-is hauling-my-lobster-pots. Yes, that's it. There's what's spoiled my luck. No one would come out here except for lobsters, at least, on a day like this. An' my lobster-pots are the only lobster-pots on the ledge.

Sam shifted his oars forward to the high rowlocks, and began to row silently in the direction of the sound. The dory-compass, in the stillness. clicked alarmingly. No need for a compass now, with that noise on the starboard bow. Sam stopped rowing and stooped to muffle the click with his coat; then turned again to his oars.

A minute passed-two minutes; and Sam saw only the gray fog ahead.

and the gray waters tossing beneath. Then, right over the bow, came the rattle of planking, the spatter of water on wet boards. The thief had taken a lobster-pot aboard: Sam had him red-handed. Five strokes, ten, twelvea dancing shadow darkened the fog ahead. Two more strokes, and Sam was beside a great blue dory-Jim Weeks's.

"Hand over them lobsters," Sam shouted, "they're mine."

As he spoke he took his painter and jumped clumsily aboard the blue dory.

Jim Weeks was bending over, taking lobsters out of the slatted trap. He turned, and looked up as Sam spoke.

"Hello, Sam Dodge. Ye've lost yer bearin's, haven't ye?"
"Gi'me them lobsters. They're my lobsters." Sam repeated.

"Sam Dodge, ye're drunk. This is my pot, an' they're my lobsters. Get into your own dory."

But Sam knew he was not drunk. He had followed his course to his own lobster-pots, and here was Jim Weeks with a dory-ful of lobsters, and a trap just hauled. It was all too plain that Weeks was trying to keep the lobsters by some excuse.

"Ye damned thief," he shouted at Weeks, "ye damned thief. Them lobsters are mine." He stooped and began to pick up the dark-green shellfish that littered the grated dory-floor. The lobsters were very hard to grasp, thought Sam, but that was because of the choppy sea.

Jim Weeks seized an oar. "Sam Dodge, ye've missed ye'r bearin's. This is western ledge, I tell ye, an' the lobsters are mine. Drop 'em an' get back to y're dory or by-" he shook the oar threateningly.

Sam felt, rather than saw, the gesture, and ducked, forward, downward. Something hit him on the head, beside the ear. He staggered, fell on all fours; and tried to regain his feet. As he reached out to recover his balance, his fingers closed about the handle of a big rusty bait-knife, stuck in the gunwale. Another blow sent him reeling. He struck at Weeks, blindly once, the rotten oil-coat ripped under the blade; twice-something warm spurted over Sam's hand: again-Sam hit nothing, and fell sprawling over the body of Jim Weeks.