In the small hours of the morning, Harvard has guardians more mysterious than yardcops and night watchmen. The University has a dog and cat that penetrate the more-than-human-secrets of the hours before dawn.
Sarah, a mass of feline fur, follows the Yard officials on their most solitary rounds. She is never far from a guardian of the Yard: her mew accompanies every flicker of the signal lantern at Gray's Hall.
Although the Stoughton janitor paid for her upkeep last week, Sarah has refused to leave her lodgings in the basement of Harvard Hall. There she spends her days, in the bliss that comes from ignorance of lectures in the building.
Astor, of the Fogg Museum, is used to better surroundings than Sarah. His easel length of German police, bred, as his name indicates, in the luxury of the more expensive paintings of the gallery, has a supreme confidence that Sarah can never attain.
He has spent seven years in the Fogg, nosing at extravagant Grecos in the Cambridge moonlight. An enviable nobility is the result. Two photographs in the metropolitan papers show it.
When the janitor leads him into the museum library these evenings at 10 o'clock, Fine Arts students do not need to be told that the time for studying is over. Astor surveys the specialists with a disconcerting yawn.
The contentment of that yawn is the result of his sheltered years spent in the observation of Greek casts; broken only by morning strolls past the Union and down the hill by the College Library.