'I think you're wrong, sir. I'm perfectly convinced you're wrong.' Mr Wells smiled in his superior way, as if to say that it was a pity that Mr Lawrie was so foolish, but that perhaps he could not help it. 'Ah,' he said, 'but you have not had to wade through over thirty of these gems in a single week. I have. I can assure you your views would undergo a change if you could go through what I have. Let me read you a selection. If that does not convert you, nothing will. If you will excuse me for a moment, Beckett, I will leave the groaning board, and fetch the manuscripts.' He left the room, and returned with a pile of paper, which he deposited in front of him on the table. 'Now,' he said, selecting the topmost manuscript, 'I will take no unfair advantage. I will read you the very pick of the bunch. None of the other--er--poems come within a long way of this. It is a case of Eclipse first and the rest nowhere. The author, the gifted author, is a boy of the name of Lorimer, whom I congratulate on taking the Rajah's prize. I drain this cup of coffee to him. Are you ready? Now, then.' He cleared his throat. [16] A DISPUTED AUTHORSHIP 'One moment,' said Mr Lawrie, 'might I ask what is the subject of the poem?' 'Death of Dido,' said the Headmaster. 'Good, hackneyed, evergreen subject, mellow with years. Go on, Wells.' Mr Wells began. Queen of Tyre, ancient Tyre, Whilom mistress of the wave. Mr Lawrie, who had sunk back into the recesses of his chair in an attitude of attentive repose, sat up suddenly with a start. 'What!' he cried. 'Hullo,' said Mr Wells, 'has the beauty of the work come home to you already?' 'You notice,' he said, as he repeated the couplet, 'that flaws begin to appear in the gem right from the start. It was rash of Master Lorimer to attempt such a difficult metre. Plucky, but rash. He should have stuck to blank verse. Tyre, you notice, two syllables to rhyme with "deny her" in line three. "What did fortune e'er deny her? Were not all her warriors brave?" That last line seems to me distinctly weak. I don't know how it strikes you.' 'You're hypercritical, Wells,' said the Head. 'Now, for a boy I consider that a very good beginning. What do you say, Lawrie?' 'I--er. Oh, I think I am hardly a judge.' 'To resume,' said Mr Mortimer Wells. He resumed, and ran through the remaining verses of the poem with comments. When he had finished, he remarked that, in his opinion a whiff of fresh air would not hurt him. If the Headmaster would excuse him, he would select another of those excellent cigars, and smoke it out of doors. 'By all means,' said the Head; 'I think I won't join you myself, but perhaps Lawrie will.' 'No, thank you. I think I will remain. Yes, I think I will remain.' Mr Wells walked jauntily out of the room. When the door had shut, Mr Lawrie coughed nervously. 'Another cigar, Lawrie?'