rowed three races with him, and we trained together."

Sir Patrick looked round him with a sour smile of triumph.

"Then let me tell you, Sir," he said, "that you trained with a man who
died nearly two hundred years ago."

Mr. Delamayn appealed, in genuine bewilderment, to the company
generally:

"What does this old gentleman mean?" he asked. "I am speaking of Tom
Dryden, of Corpus. Every body in the University knows _him._"

"I am speaking," echoed Sir Patrick, "of John Dryden the Poet.
Apparently, every body in the University does _not_ know _him!"_

Mr. Delamayn answered, with a cordial earnestness very pleasant to see:

"Give you my word of honor, I never heard of him before in my life!
Don't be angry, Sir. _I'm_ not offended with _you._" He smiled, and took
out his brier-wood pipe. "Got a light?" he asked, in the friendliest
possible manner.

Sir Patrick answered, with a total absence of cordiality:

"I don't smoke, Sir."

Mr. Delamayn looked at him, without taking the slightest offense:

"You don't smoke!" he repeated. "I wonder how you get through your spare