Senior year started with a whimper. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. . ” She said. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. Of course there are, millions of them. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior.
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