grandfather or someone was a bit of a pro at verse in his day, I believe, and they think it ought to run in the family.'     

       Pringle examined the situation in all its aspects. 'Can't you get along?'       he enquired at length.     

       'Not an inch.'     

       'Pity. I wish we could swop places.'     

       'So do I for some things. To start with, I shouldn't mind having made that century of yours against Charchester.'     

       Pringle beamed. The least hint that his fellow-man was taking him at his own valuation always made him happy.     

       'Thanks,' he said. 'No, but what I meant was that I wished I was in for this poetry prize. I bet I could turn out a rattling good screed. Why, last year I almost got the prize. I sent in fearfully hot stuff.'     

       'Think so?' said Lorimer doubtfully, in answer to the 'rattling good screed' passage of Pringle's speech. 'Well, I wish you'd have a shot. You might as well.'     

       'What, really? How about the prize?'     

       'Oh, hang the prize. We'll have to chance that.'     

       'I thought you were keen on getting it.'     

       'Oh, no. Second or third will do me all right, and satisfy my people. They only want to know for certain that I've got the poetic afflatus all right. Will you take it on?'     

       'All right.'     

       'Thanks, awfully.'     

       'I say, Lorimer,' said Pringle after a pause.     

       'Yes?'     

       'Are your people coming down for the O.B.s' match?'     

       The Old Beckfordians' match was the great function of the Beckford cricket season. The Headmaster gave a garden-party. The School band played; the School choir sang; and sisters, cousins, aunts, and parents flocked to the School in platoons.     

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