who were willing to spend half a guinea to that end.

'Well, old Matthews,' said the Colonel, 'sent off for this book.
Thought it must be a sporting novel, don't you know. I shall never
forget his disappointment when he opened the parcel. It turned out to
be a collection of poems. _The Dark Horse, and Other Studies in the
Tragic_, was its full title.'

'Matthews never had a soul for poetry, good or bad. _The Dark
Horse_ itself was about a knight in the Middle Ages, you know. Great
nonsense it was, too. Matthews used to read me passages from time to
time. When he gave up the regiment he left me the book as a farewell
gift. He said I was the only man he knew who really sympathized with
him in the affair. I've got it still. It's in the library somewhere, if
you care to look at it. What recalled it to my mind was your mention of
Dido. The second poem was about the death of Dido, as far as I can
remember. I'm no judge of poetry, but it didn't strike me as being very
good. At the same time, you might pick up a hint or two from it. It
ought to be in one of the two lower shelves on the right of the door as
you go in. Unless it has been taken away. That is not likely, though.
We are not very enthusiastic poetry readers here.'

Pringle thanked him for his information, and went back to the
stable-yard, where he lost the fourth test match by sixteen runs, owing
to preoccupation. You can't play a yorker on the leg-stump with a thin
walking-stick if your mind is occupied elsewhere. And the leg-stump
yorkers of James, the elder (by a minute) of the two Ashbys, were
achieving a growing reputation in Charchester cricket circles.

One ought never, thought Pringle, to despise the gifts which Fortune