In the Quarter

``Eat, all day long, forever!''

Rex slipped two twenty-franc pieces into the filthy little fist.

``Eat,'' he murmured, and turned away.

Seven

Next morning, when Clifford arrived at the Atelier of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, he found the students more excited than usual over the advent of a ``Nouveau.''

Hazing at Julien's has assumed, of late, a comparatively mild form. Of course there are traditions of serious trouble in former years and a few fights have taken place, consequent upon the indignant resistance of new men to the ridiculous demands forced upon them by their ingenious tormentors. Still, the hazing of today is comparatively inoffensive, and there is not much of it. In the winter the students are too busy to notice a newcomer, except to make him feel strange and humble by their lofty scorn. But in the autumn, when the men have returned from their long out-of-door rest, with brush and palette, a certain amount of friskiness is developed, which sometimes expends itself upon the luckless ``nouveau.'' A harmless search for the time-honored ``grand reflecteur,'' an enforced song and dance, a stern command to tread the mazes of the shameless quadrille with an equally shameless model, is usually the extent of the infliction. Occasionally the stranger is invited to sit on a high stool and read aloud to the others while they work, as he would like to do himself. But sometimes, if a man resists these reasonable demands in a contumacious manner, he is ``crucified.'' This occurs so seldom, however, that Clifford, on entering the barn-like studios that morning, was surprised to see that a ``crucifixion'' was in progress.

A stranger was securely strapped to the top rungs of a twenty-foot ladder which a crowd of Frenchmen were preparing to raise and place in a slanting position against the wall.

``Who is it that those fellows are fooling with?'' he asked.

``An Englishman, and it's about time we put a stop to it,'' answered Elliott.

When Americans or Englishmen are hazed by the French students, they make common cause in keeping watch that the matter does not go too far.

``How many of us are here this morning?'' said Clifford.

``Fourteen who can fight,'' said Elliott; ``they only want someone to give the word.''

Clifford buttoned his jacket and shouldered his way into the middle of the crowd. ``That's enough. He's been put through enough for today,'' he said coolly.

A Frenchman, who had himself only entered the Atelier the week previous, laughed and replied, ``We'll put you on, if you say anything.''

There was an ominous pause. Every old student there knew Clifford to be one of the most skillful and dangerous boxers in the school.

They looked with admiration upon their countryman. It didn't cost anything to admire him. They urged him on, and he didn't need much urging, for he remembered his own recent experience as a new man, and he didn't know Clifford.

``Go ahead,'' cried this misguided student, ``he's a nouveau, and he's going up!''

Clifford laughed in his face. ``Come along,'' he called, as some dozen English and American students pushed into the circle and gathered round the prostrate Englishman.

``See here, Clifford, what's the use of interrupting?'' urged a big Frenchman.

Clifford began loosening the straps. ``You know, Bonin, that we always do interfere when it goes as far as this against an Englishman or an American.'' He laughed good naturedly. ``There's always been a fight over it before, but I hope there won't be any today.''

Bonin grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

After vainly fussing with the ropes, Clifford and the others finally cut them and the ``nouveau'' scrambled to his feet and took an attitude which may be seen engraved in any volume of instruction in the noble art of self-defense. He was an Englishman of the sandy variety. Orange-colored whiskers decorated a carefully scrubbed face, terminating in a red-brown mustache. He had blue eyes, now lighted to a pale green by the fire of battle, reddish-brown hair, and white hands spattered with orange-colored freckles. All this, together with a well made suit of green and yellow checks, and the seesaw accent of the British Empire, answered, when politely addressed, to the name of Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq.

``I say,'' he began, ``I'm awfully obliged, you know, and all that; but I'd jolly well like to give some of these cads a jolly good licking, you know.''

``Go in, my friend, go in!'' laughed Clifford; ``but next time we'll leave you to hang in the air for an hour or two, that's all.''

``Damn their cheek!'' began the Englishman.

``See here,'' cried Elliott sharply, ``you're only a nouveau, and you'd better shut up till you've been here long enough to talk.''

``In other words,'' said Clifford, ``don't buck against custom.''

``But I cahn't see it,'' said the nouveau, brushing his dusty trousers. ``I don't see it at all, you know. Damn their cheek!''

At this moment the week-weaned Frenchman shoved up to Clifford.

``What did you mean by interfering? Eh! You English pig.''

Clifford looked at him with contempt. ``What do you want, my little Nouveau?''

``Nouveau!'' spluttered the Gaul, ``Nouveau, eh!'' and he made a terrific lunge at the American, who was sent stumbling backward, and slipping, fell heavily.

The Frenchman gazed around in triumph, but his grin was not reflected on the faces of his compatriots. None of them would have changed places with him.

Clifford picked himself up deliberately. His face was calm and mild as he walked up to his opponent, who hurriedly put himself into an attitude of self-defense.

``Monsieur Nouveau, you are not wise. But some day you will learn better, when you are no longer a nouveau,'' said Clifford, kindly. The man looked puzzled, but kept his fists up.

``Now I am going to punish you a little,'' proceeded Clifford, in even tones, ``not harshly, but with firmness, for your good,'' he added, walking straight up to the Frenchman.

The latter struck heavily at Clifford's head, but he ducked like a flash, and catching his antagonist around the waist, carried him, kicking, to the water-basin, where he turned on the water and shoved the squirming Frenchman under. The scene was painful, but brief; when one of the actors in it emerged from under the water-spout, he no longer asked for anybody's blood.

``Go and dry yourself,'' said Clifford, cheerfully; and walking over to his easel, sat down and began to work.

In ten minutes, all trace of the row had disappeared, excepting that one gentleman's collar looked rather limp and his hair was uncommonly sleek. The men worked steadily. Snatches of song and bits of whistling rose continuously from easel and taboret, all blending in a drowsy hum. Gethryn and Elliott caught now and then, from behind them, words of wisdom which Clifford was administering to the now subdued Rowden.

``Yes,'' he was saying, ``many a man has been injured for life by these Frenchmen for a mere nothing. I had two brothers,'' he paused, ``and my golden-haired boy – '' he ceased again, apparently choking with emotion.

``But – I say – you're not married, you know,'' said the Englishman.

``Hush,'' sighed Clifford, ``I – I – married the daughter of an African duke. She was brought to the States by a slave trader in infancy.''

``Black?'' gasped Mr Rowden.

``Very black, but beautiful. I could not keep her. She left me, and is singing with Haverley's Minstrels now.''

Like the majority of his countrymen, Mr Rowden was ready to believe anything he heard of social conditions in the States, but one point required explanation.

``You said the child had golden hair.''

``Yes, his mother's hair was red,'' sighed Clifford.

Gethryn, glancing round, saw the Englishman's jaw drop, as he said, ``How extraordinary!'' Then he began to smile as if suspecting a joke. But Clifford's eye met his in gentle rebuke.

``C'est l'heure! Rest!'' Down jumped the model. The men leaned back noisily. Clifford rose, bowed gravely to the Englishman, and stepped across the taborets to join his friends.

Gethryn was cleaning his brushes with turpentine and black soap.