It took two expert mechanics half a day to dissemble it into its minutest parts and remove it, which only goes to prove the rare energy of sophomore humor under efficient leadership.
Then again, that very fall, Burne had caused a sensation.

A certain Phyllis Styles, an intercollegiate prom-trotter, had failed to get her yearly invitation to the Harvard-Princeton game.
Jesse Ferrenby had brought her to a smaller game a few weeks before, and had pressed Burne into service--to the ruination of the latter's misogyny.
"Are you coming to the Harvard game ?" Burne had asked indiscreetly, merely to make conversation.
"If you ask me," cried Phyllis quickly.
"Of course I do," said Burne feebly.

He was unversed in the arts of Phyllis, and was sure that this was merely a vapid form of kidding.
Before an hour had passed he knew that he was indeed involved.

Phyllis had pinned him down and served him up, informed him the train she was arriving by, and depressed him thoroughly.

Aside from loathing Phyllis, he had particularly wanted to stag that game and entertain some Harvard friends.
"She'll see," he informed a delegation who arrived in his room to josh him.