THE CRIME

It happened in that great course History 1, and Mr. Perkins, head tutor of the well-known and far-famed boll-boys was lecturing. He was lecturing well, in fact he was lecturing brilliantly. Bent over the desks were hundreds of unfortunates absorbing learning willynilly, their flying fingers striving in vain to keep pace with the gush of dates and of treaties that flowed forth with immense speed. Through Marlberough's campaigns sped Mr. Perkins with flying jaw, through the contemporary Continental complications, through the peace settlements, through the founding of the Whigs and of the Tories, until at last the cornerstone on which the edifice hung was about to be placed.

"Gentlemen, the solution to this situation is to be found in the antecedents of the British ruler, the secret to it is the parentage of Queen Anne."

Silence.

Mr. Perkins scratched his head.

Silence.

Mr. Perkins looked slightly aghast.

"Gentlemen, I DON'T KNOW who Queen Anne's parents were!"

From the opposition benches cheers and mad applause.

* * *

That great Dunster Don Juan who makes flutter the hearts of the debutantes from Chelsea and the debutantes from Beacon Street was out a-hunting. This time the quarry was a dainty and delicious little nurse at the Boston Lying-In Hospital.

Rushing into the waiting room at five o'clock, he glanced at his watch in an agony lest he be late. He lit a cigarette. He put it out. She didn't come. He got up. He sat down. Where was she?

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to confront a vision in white. She smiled at him. "You mustn't get so excited about this. It's something that happens every day. Why, one would think it was you that was having the baby."