'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 rag-time 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 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. 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?'