It is a source of deepest pleasure that at last a legitimate crime can figure as one of the episodes of this column. The crime in question, perpetrated against a denizen of the Dunster House, is almost worthy of the attentions of the Federal Government's J. Edgar Hoover and his crack band of college trained sleuths. The fact that it is still shrouded in mystery can detract little from the story itself.

The criminal activities started some two weeks ago when the student's room was the objective of a fusillade of bullets which pierced three window panes, much to the mental and monetary discomfort of the occupant. The act was attributed to one of the numerous urchins living in the vicinity, and in the general scurry over divisionals was soon forgotten.

Last Friday night, however, when the student returned to his room after a visit next door, he found one entire pane shattered to bits, and on the bed at the opposite side of the room, the missile in question. It was an old revolver, having a large antique value, if good for no other purpose. Stuck between the hammer and the chamber was this note: "Death tonight at the fatal hour of twelve. Your friend, the Phantom."

Seriously doubting the amicable relationship alluded to in the signature, the student in question, and with him his roommate, made all possible arrangements for repelling the visitor. In fact, a regular cordon of loyal Dunster House men patrolled up and down past the window for the better part of the night--enough to disrupt the best laid plans of the most desperate killer. The intended victim has not since slept in the bedroom, while his roommate has done so, only after erecting across the window a magnificent barricade consisting of his bureau stuffed with old clothes to deaden the force of the expected bullets.

Biddy Mrs. Hicks, summoned to the scene of the crime the next morning for the express purpose of cleaning up the glass, took one look at the huge hole in the window, asked one penetrating question: "Was the window open when he threw the revolver?"; offered one valuable suggestion: "You better shake out your shoes before you wear them again."

* * *

From Stillman Infirmary comes news of another act which, if not so murderous, is equally diabolical. When a Law School patient was informed that smoking was absolutely prohibited on his floor, he adopted the expedient of slipping off to the bathroom and there indulging in a smoke. Caught in the act, he was reprimanded, which did no good. Next his bedroom slippers were taken from him, in the hope that he would not venture forth barefoot. This was equally ineffective. The nurses then went into a huddle--and the patient was deprived of his bathrobe and the lower half of his pajamas. Even legal knowledge failed to cover this subject, and the patient was permanently confined to his bed--cans his Chesterfield.