“Good thing for them they can’t! They’d swallow a couple of solos and commit suicide. Sit down and be miserable. For once that Fido of mine isn’t here.” “That what?” asked Harry, mystified. “Pardon me; I should have said fidus, fidus Achates. Get me? Honestly, old man, I don’t know how I’m going to go on living with him. Here it is only the middle of November, and I’m worn to a string. My health is giving way under the strain. If I was only certain about one thing――――” “What’s that?” asked the other, as The Duke paused thoughtfully. “Whether he’s a skink or a bombyx. If I knew that I’d be able to get on better.” “What the dickens is a――a skink?” “A skink? Well, it’s something like a grus, only not nearly so intelligent.” “You’re a silly chump,” laughed Harry. “Worse than that, O Discerning One! I’m crazy, absolutely crazy! So would you be if you had to live with Cotton. Look at that table! See the mess! It’s always like that. I, personally, am naturally neat and tidy, Merrow, but Cotton――well, see for yourself! He――he annoys me!” “Things do look a bit messy,” acknowledged Harry. “Messy! My word! Messy, say you? That’s no name for it. It takes half my time keeping this place picked up. Well, let’s forget my troubles and talk about yours.” “I haven’t any, I guess. Except that Kilts is down on me just at present and I’m having a bad time with math.” “Well, you heard about me, didn’t you? Had a terrible falling-out with Old Tige; he got quite――quite insulting Saturday. You see, I――er――neglected to hand in a theme, and he said I’d have to do it by Saturday noon. And I really meant to because, of course, he was quite within his rights, you know. So Friday evening I went over to the library and worked and worked and delved and delved in the――the musty archives getting notes for one of the nicest little themes you ever saw! Oh, I must have worked for ten or fifteen minutes! Armed with my notes I returned here fully intending to sport my oak, as we say in dear old England, and do that theme. But here was Cotton scratching away with his old pen and shuffling his silly feet and making noises in his throat. It was quite impossible to write a theme under such circumstances. So I――well, I didn’t. Says I to myself, I will arise betimes in the morning and do it. Which I did; that is, fairly betimes. But where were my notes? I ask you, Merrow, as man to man, where were my notes? Flown! Decamped! Utterly vanished! So, as there was no time to get more notes, I started in to write a theme on the simple little subject of Walter Scott. It was a――well, a hurried effort, and as it turned out I got Sir Walter mixed up in my mind with Thackeray. Result, disapproval on the part of Mr. Edmund Gaddis; disapproval and hard words. I was patient with him, Merrow, but it was difficult, for he said things no gentleman should say to another. We parted――well, scarcely friends. And I’ve got two themes now hanging over my head instead of one.