There were long histories, invented by Frank himself, of the darker sides of the lives of the more respectable members of the Senate--histories that grew, like legends, term by term--in which the most desperate deeds were done.

The Master of Trinity, for example, in these Sagas, would pass through extraordinary love adventures, or discover the North Pole, or give a lecture, with practical examples, of the art of flying; the Provost of King's would conspire with the President of Queen's College, to murder the Vice-Chancellor and usurp his dignities.

And these histories would be enacted with astonishing realism, chiefly by Frank himself, with the help of a zealous friend or two who were content to obey.
And these were all over now; and that was the very door through which the Vice-Chancellor was accustomed to escape from his assassins! * * * * * Jack sighed again; passed through, picked up the parcel of clothes that lay in the window-seat, unhitched the hammock in which Frank had slept last night (he noticed the ends of three cigarettes placed on the cover of a convenient biscuit-tin), and went off resembling a _retiarius_.
Mrs.Jillings sniffed again as she looked after him up the court.

She didn't understand those young gentlemen at all; and frequently said so.
(VI) At half-past six o'clock that morning--about the time that Jack awoke in Cambridge--John Harris, laborer, emerged, very sleepy and frowsy--for he had sat up late last night at the "Spotted Dog"-- from the door of a small cottage on the Ely road, in the middle of Grunty Fen.

He looked this way and that, wondering whether it were as late as his kitchen-clock informed him, and observing the sun, that hung now lamentably high up in that enormous dome of summer sky that sat on the fenland like a dish-cover on a dish.