A Prefect’s Uncle

been in the Upper Fifth himself a year before, and he remembered that every summer term there descended upon that form a Bad Time in the shape of a poetry prize. A certain Indian potentate, the Rajah of Seltzerpore, had paid a visit to the school some years back, and had left behind him on his departure certain monies in the local bank, which were to be devoted to providing the Upper Fifth with an annual prize for the best poem on a subject to be selected by the Headmaster. Entrance was compulsory. The wily authorities knew very well that if it had not been, the entries for the prize would have been somewhat small. Why the Upper Fifth were so favoured in preference to the Sixth or Remove is doubtful. Possibly it was felt that, what with the Jones History, the Smith Latin Verse, the Robinson Latin Prose, and the De Vere Crespigny Greek Verse, and other trophies open only to members of the Remove and Sixth, those two forms had enough to keep them occupied as it was. At any rate, to the Upper Fifth the prize was given, and every year, three weeks after the commencement of the summer term, the Bad Time arrived.

“Can’t you get on?” asked Pringle.

“No.”

“What’s the subject?”

“Death of Dido.”

“Something to be got out of that, surely.”

“Wish you’d tell me what.”

“Heap of things.”

“Such as what? Can’t see anything myself. I call it perfectly indecent dragging the good lady out of her well-earned tomb at this time of day. I’ve looked her up in the Dic. of Antiquities, and it appears that she committed suicide some years ago. Body-snatching, I call it. What do I want to know about her?”

“What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba?” murmured Pringle.

“Hecuba?” said Lorimer, looking puzzled, “What’s Hecuba got to do with it?”

“I was only quoting,” said Pringle, with gentle superiority.

“Well, I wish instead of quoting rot you’d devote your energies to helping me with these beastly verses. How on earth shall I begin?”

“You might adapt my quotation. ‘What’s Dido got to do with me, or I to do with Dido?’ I rather like that. Jam it down. Then you go on in a sort of ragtime metre. In the ‘Coon Drum-Major’ style. Besides, you see, the beauty of it is that you administer a wholesome snub to the examiner right away. Makes him sit up at once. Put it down.”

Lorimer bit off another quarter of an inch of his pen. “You needn’t be an ass,” he said shortly.

“My dear chap,” said Pringle, enjoying himself immensely, “what on earth is the good of my offering you suggestions if you won’t take them?”

Lorimer said nothing. He bit off another mouthful of penholder.

“Well, anyway,” resumed Pringle. “I can’t see why you’re so keen on the business. Put down anything. The beaks never make a fuss about these special exams.”

“It isn’t the beaks I care about,” said Lorimer in an injured tone of voice, as if someone had been insinuating that he had committed some crime, “only my people are rather keen on my doing well in this exam.”

“Why this exam, particularly?”

“Oh, I don’t know. My grandfather or someone was a bit of a pro at verse in his day, I believe, and they think it ought to run in the 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 swap 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. They only want to know for certain that I’ve got the poetic afflatus all right. Will you take it on?”

“All right.”

“Thanks, awfully.”

“I say, Lorimer,” said Pringle after a pause.

“Yes?”

“Are your people coming down for the O.B.s’ match?”

The Old Beckfordians’ match was the great function of the Beckford cricket season. The Headmaster gave a garden-party. The School band played; the School choir sang; and sisters, cousins, aunts, and parents flocked to the School in platoons.

“Yes, I think so,” said Lorimer. “Why?”

“Is your sister coming?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” A brother’s utter lack of interest in his sister’s actions is a weird and wonderful thing for an outsider to behold.

“Well, look here, I wish you’d get her to come. We could give them tea in here, and have rather a good time, don’t you think?”

“All right. I’ll make her come. Look here, Pringle, I believe you’re rather gone on Mabel.”

This was Lorimer’s vulgar way.

“Don’t be an ass,” said Pringle, with a laugh which should have been careless, but was in reality merely feeble. “She’s quite a kid.”

Miss Mabel Lorimer’s exact age was fifteen. She had brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile which disclosed to view a dimple. There are worse things than a dimple. Distinctly so, indeed. When ladies of fifteen possess dimples, mere man becomes but as a piece of damp blotting-paper. Pringle was seventeen and a half, and consequently too old to take note of such frivolous attributes; but all the same he had a sort of vague, sketchy impression that it would be pleasanter to run up a lively century against the O.B.s with Miss Lorimer as a spectator than in her absence. He felt pleased that she was coming.

“I say, about this poem,” said