“You mean you’re not sure?” said I.

“The editor wouldn’t give me money for a taxi,” it said, “so I came on the wind and I’ve had a rough journey. That’s why I’m late.”

“Late for what?” I said.

“For striking terror and dismay into your black heart,” said the creature. “Because you discriminate against women. Because you are a barnacle on the Ship of Progress. Because you are a miserable Neo-Piscean who is trying to halt the approach of the Age of Aquarius. Because you are a fascist-recidivist-elitist-chauvinist-pig. I am here to expose you. Then your nerve will break and the Junior Fellows will throw open the gates to women and hail a new dawn.”

“You are even later than you think,” said I. “The new dawn of which you speak was hailed on May 11 of this year when it was decided by our senior fascist-recidivist-elitist-chauvinist-pigs, meeting in solemn council, and with the full concurrence of those of our Founders who are still living, that women should be admitted to this College under the same conditions as men, beginning next September.”

“Aha! So we drove you to it,” said the figure.

“Not in the least,” said I. “This college follows a star, but not the Toronto Star. You are too late.”

The figure seemed to lose height. “You mean there’s no Ugly Spectre of Sexism,” it said, in a wistful, papery voice. I felt sorry for the frail little creature.

“Why don’t you just take a quick look around, and then go back and say you didn’t find anything and it isn’t worth bothering about?” I said.

Once again the figure became shrill. “None of your helpful suggestions,” it squeaked; “none of your masculine gallantry toward the defeated female. I’m onto your game; you want to disarm me with kindness, but you won’t do it!”

“I must say you’re very hard to please,” said I. “And I can’t go on arguing with you unless I can call you something. What’s your name?”

“You’d better call me Ms.” said the figure.

“To me Ms. has always meant Manuscript,” I said, “and you’re not Manuscript, or even Typescript. You’re that most dismal form of letterpress, an out-of-date newspaper. I think I’ll call you Scrap, because you’re scrap paper and because you’re so scrappy.”

To my surprise Scrap giggled. “Now you’re talking like a fellow-creature,” she said.

“How about another Scotch?”

Hardly had I formed the thought than two glasses were in the air between us, and again Scrap grAbbed the larger. I thought I saw a rude twinkle where her eye should have been. “Here’s my hand up your gown, Master,” Scrap said.

I am not to be outdone in colloquialism. “Here’s thumbing through your Index,” said I. We drank. It was very good whisky, which is not perhaps surprising, as it obviously came from the spirit world. After her second drink Scrap was quite friendly.

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a look around,” said she. I shall refer to her henceforward as ‘she’ because the more Scrap drank the more feminine she became. “Want to come?”

I nodded. But I was concerned. Where was our Bull?

“Mind you, it has to be understood that you’re following,” said Scrap. “There’s to be none of this chauvinist-pig nonsense of showing the little lady over the place. I don’t need a guide.”

So off we went. We started with the carrel area, and Scrap was in a perfect ecstasy, dodging in and out among the partitions, disguising herself as the contents of a waste-paper basket, and popping out at me from what she hoped were unexpected places, with cheerful squeaks of “Boo!” It was rather like going for a walk with a mischievous dog. But as she dashed ahead of me I noticed that for all her Women’s Lib principles she was uncommonly feminine, and now and then, when she was out of sight, I heard that sound which had such a stimulating effect on our Victorian forefathers—the delicate rustle of skirts. It was clear that Scrap was not wanting in feminine arts, and if I had been younger, and not a philosopher, I suppose I would have ended up chasing her.

She was delighted with the Chapel, and twitched aside the curtains behind the altar, as a likely place for the Ugly Spectre of Sexism to be lurking. She took a long look at our altar-piece, and said: “Who’s this woman, painted inside a star?”

“That is a depiction of Divine Wisdom, always represented as a woman,” said I.

“Right on!” said Scrap, approvingly.

Then we climbed the stairs, and came to the door of the Round Room. This will stop her, I thought; a spectre might lurk in a place that is full of corners, but to lurk within a circle is an impossibility. And that shows how much I knew about it. Pride came before my fall.

As we entered the Round Room the sense of being haunted descended upon me like a mist. The room was lit by an eerie, flickering blue light, which moved and stirred so restlessly that for a few seconds I could see nothing clearly. Therefore I was startled when a deep, authoritative voice, which was certainly not that of Scrap, said: “You’re late. Just like a woman. I’ve been expecting you. Sit down.”

The speaker was a figure so astonishing and alarming that for a moment I thought that I might swoon. He—certainly it was a he—was tall of figure, huge of chest, slim of flank, and wore elegant evening dress. Not a dinner jacket, which is often seen here; a white tie, and a tail coat of the most distinguished tailoring. But it was his head that struck awe and terror into my heart. It was huge, and it was the head of a bull. And no common bull either, but the Bull from over our gate, and from its left ear hung a massive ornament of jet, within which a fleur-de-lis was outlined in diamonds.

“The Massey Bull,” I shrieked.

“Obviously,” said the creature.

Scrap was dancing so wildly that she seemed to blow about the room on a breeze. “You said I wouldn’t find him, and I have! It’s the Ugly Spectre of Sexism that lurks at Massey College!”

An expression passed over the face of the creature which I shall not attempt to describe, but it was enough to cause Scrap to crumple away in alarm. “I am the heraldic bull of Massey College,” it said, with great dignity. “I am, in a special and exalted sense, the totem-animal of this academic, all-male community. I stand, very properly, at the top of its coat-of-arms, and over its entrance. I am, as you may see, unmistakably masculine. I scorn to lurk. I pervade. And I demand to know what you, Master, and presumably this bundle of waste-paper here, mean by proposing to admit women under what I regard, with unchallenged right, as my roof?”

What was I to say? Fortunately I didn’t have to say anything, because Scrap began to whirl in the air around the creature, squeaking: “Admit women, did you say? Just you try to keep them out! You’ll have me to reckon with. I’m Ms. let me tell you, and here I stay till this place is full of women. I’m going to make you all miserable till you acknowledge that the day of masculine supremacy is over, and you’d better get that through your big hairy head. Masculine indeed! You earring-wearer! The day of barnyard rule and barnyard ethics is done, and the glorious pennon of Unisex is being unfurled over every bastion of masculine privilege in the civilized world!”

The bull lowered his great head and fixed Ms. with red eyes. He blew a snorting breath from his nostrils that could only mean trouble. I felt that I should say something, and as I didn’t know what to say of course I said something foolish.

“Surely you young people can find some grounds of compromise,” said I. They both turned on me with such anger that I feared they would attack me. To be manhandled is unpleasant, but it is a far more dreadful thing to be ghost-handled; one’s metabolism is never the same afterward.

“You sit down,” said the Bull; “we are going to debate this matter, Ms. and I, of the admission of women to Massey College. You shall be referee,” he said, and with a sharp side-wise hook of his dexter horn he tossed me into the red chair in which it is humorously supposed I preside in that room. There was nothing for it but to obey.