figure eleven, Pringle, whose score had been at ninety-eight since
half-past ten, found himself within two inches of his opponent's ball,
which was tottering on the very edge of the pocket. He administered the
_coup de grace_ with the air of a John Roberts, and retired
triumphant; while the Charchester representatives pointed out that as
their score was at seventy-four, they had really won a moral victory by
four points. To which specious and unsportsmanlike piece of sophistry
Pringle turned a deaf ear.

It was now too late for any serious literary efforts. No bard can do
without his sleep. Even Homer used to nod at times. So Pringle
contented himself with reading through the poem, which consisted of
some thirty lines, and copying the same down on a sheet of notepaper
for future reference. After which he went to bed.

In order to arrive at Beckford in time for morning school, he had to
start from the house at eight o'clock punctually. This left little time
for poetical lights. The consequence was that when Lorimer, on the
following afternoon, demanded the poem as per contract, all that
Pringle had to show was the copy which he had made of the poem in the
book. There was a moment's suspense while Conscience and Sheer
Wickedness fought the matter out inside him, and then Conscience, which
had started on the encounter without enthusiasm, being obviously flabby
and out of condition, threw up the sponge.

'Here you are,' said Pringle, 'it's only a rough copy, but here it
_is_.'

Lorimer perused it hastily.