'Slacking!' said Charteris. 'I like that. I'm doing berrain work, Babe. I'm writing an article on masters and their customs, which will cause a profound sensation in the Common Room. At least it would, if they ever saw it, but they won't. Or I hope they won't for their sake and mine. So run away, my precious Babe, and don't disturb your uncle when he's busy.'     

       'Rot,' said the Babe firmly, 'you haven't taken any exercise for a week.'     

       Charteris replied proudly that he had wound up his watch only last night. The Babe refused to accept the remark as relevant to the matter in hand.     

       'Look here, Alderman,' he said, sitting down on the table, and gazing sternly at his victim, 'it's all very well, you know, but the final comes on in a few days, and you know you aren't in any too good training.'     

       'I am,' said Charteris, 'I'm as fit as a prize fighter. Simply full of beans. Feel my ribs.'     

       The Babe declined the offer.     

       'No, but I say,' he said plaintively, 'I wish you'd treat it seriously. It's getting jolly serious, really. If Dacre's win that cup again this year, that'll make four years running.'     

       'Not so,' said Charteris, like the mariner of infinite-resource-and-sagacity; 'not so, but far otherwise. It'll only make three.'     

       'Well, three's bad enough.'     

       'True, oh king, three is quite bad enough.'     

       'Well, then, there you are. Now you see.'     

       Charteris looked puzzled.     

       'Would you mind explaining that remark?' he said. 'Slowly.'     

       But the Babe had got off the table, and was prowling round the room, opening cupboards and boxes.     

       'What are you playing at?' enquired Charteris.     

       'Where do you keep your footer things?'     

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