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.