bestows on us. And this mention of an actual completed poem on the very
subject which was in his mind was clearly a gift of Fortune. How much
better it would be to read thoughtfully through this poem, and quarry
out a set of verses from it suitable to Lorimer's needs, than to waste
his brain-tissues in trying to evolve something original from his own
inner consciousness. Pringle objected strongly to any unnecessary waste
of his brain-tissues. Besides, the best poets borrowed. Virgil did it.
Tennyson did it. Even Homer--we have it on the authority of Mr
Kipling--when he smote his blooming lyre went and stole what he thought
he might require. Why should Pringle of the School House refuse to
follow in such illustrious footsteps?

It was at this point that the guileful James delivered his insidious
yorker, and the dull thud of the tennis ball on the board which served
as the wicket told a listening world that Charchester had won the
fourth test match, and that the scores were now two all.

But Beckford's star was to ascend again. Pringle's mind was made up. He
would read the printed poem that very night, and before retiring to
rest he would have Lorimer's verses complete and ready to be sent in
for judgement to the examiner. But for the present he would dismiss the
matter from his mind, and devote himself to polishing off the
Charchester champions in the fifth and final test match. And in this he
was successful, for just as the bell rang, summoning the players in to
a well-earned tea, a sweet forward drive from his walking-stick crashed
against the end wall, and Beckford had won the rubber.

'As the young batsman, undefeated to the last, reached the pavilion,'
said Pringle, getting into his coat, 'a prolonged and deafening salvo
of cheers greeted him. His twenty-three not out, compiled as it was