AT THE CORNER OF LOVERS' LANE
"Oh, shut up and go on!" said one of the others.
"Well, my great-great-grandfather was here in the last century, you know, a little before the Revolution. His name was David, and he was a devil. His father sent him up from Virginia, first with a private tutor to look after him until he got on to the ropes and was used to running alone (I reckon it didn't take him very long to make up his mind he could do without the tutor), and a negro body-servant—they didn't call 'em valets in those days—and a horse, maybe two horses, I don't know; we'll say two horses in the next generation probably. He kept the horse, and his servant, too, at a tavern called the Hudibras. It used to stand at the corner of Nassau Street and College Lane. But there's nothing left of College Lane now except the driveway that leads up by Dickinson Hall. He kept his own wines there at the tavern, too; had 'em brought up from their own cellar in Virginia, his father's own importation—said he couldn't get any gentleman's wine, at least none good
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