“I’m not ashamed of anything I write,” replied Cotton with intense dignity. “But I don’t want fellows to read my letters, do I?” “You do not! Nor does anyone want to read your old letters. I’ll bet a dollar and seven cents no one _could_ read ’em!” The Duke had seized a towel and was vigorously mopping the rain from his face and hair. Cotton scowled. “If I couldn’t write better than you I――I’d use a typewriter!” “Is that impossible?” scoffed The Duke, tossing the towel aside and slicking his hair with a pair of military brushes. “Sweet youth, I wouldst tell thee something an thou willst hearken. My name is Lester S. Wellington, and the S stands for Spencerian. I, O Colossal Lump of Ignorance, invented the art of writing!” Cotton said “Humph!” in an unflattering tone and gathered up his writing. The Duke, feeling better after his burst of confidence, pulled a slip of crumpled paper from a pocket and smoothed it out. It contained the notes written in the library. He had started for his room with his mind made up to sit down at once and compose that English theme. But now he viewed the notes distastefully. The virtuous impulse was dying fast. Besides, how could a fellow do anything with Cotton there? An English theme――especially to The Duke――was something requiring ideal conditions of quiet and vast concentration. And it was absolutely impossible to concentrate when Cotton was scratching his pen or shuffling his feet at the other side of the table. Besides, there was still to-morrow morning. He would arise early and do the theme before chapel. One’s faculties are always at their best in the early morning. The Duke slipped the notes between the pages of a blue book and smiled relievedly. He even viewed his roommate with a forgiving smile. “Coming over to Oxford?” he asked. “What for?” growled Cotton, not so ready to make up. “Why, for the mass-meeting, O Flower of Chivalry!” “What do I care about the mass-meeting?” inquired Cotton with a scowl. “A lot of idiots howling and some more idiots making speeches! What does it amount to?” “Why, you unpatriotic sinner!” exclaimed The Duke. “I honestly believe you’d rather see us beaten than not!” “We’re going to be beaten, whether I want it or don’t. Besides, there’ll be plenty of fellows there to make a noise without me.” The Duke viewed him with deep disgust for a moment. Finally, “Cotton, at times I experience a most frantic temptation to kick you out of the window. Isn’t that strange? Can you explain it?” “You’d better try it,” replied the other belligerently. “No, I shall try to resist,” answered The Duke, shaking his head gently. “You just say that so I’ll spoil a perfectly good window and get in trouble. I don’t think that is very nice of you, Cotton. In fact, I think it shows a mean spirit. No, when I do kick you, O Delectable One, it will be through the door, with the door open.” “You――you――――” began Cotton angrily.