It was already getting dark at the close of a half-holiday afternoon towards the end of February, and Bags, while David was engaged in these preparatory processes, was making tea for them both in the study they shared together. It was a considerably larger one than that which they had inhabited during their first year, but David’s belongings seemed to have grown proportionately to his own limbs, and they still usurped by far the greater portion of the available room. His task, though tiresome, was not one that required much concentration of attention; it was mere dull transcribing work, and he could quite well converse as it was going on. Besides, it was a very short time since he had copied out these same pages before; he had a certain familiarity with them. He finished adjusting the pens, found that he had got their distance to a nicety, and, gripping them on the place where their handles crossed, he dipped them in the ink. . . . Then, as a refinement of ingenious engineering, he took Bags’s inkpot and put it in such a place that the two pens were dipped simultaneously. “‘Infandum regina jubes,’” he said. “What an awful gasser Æneas was! He talked straight off for two books, and I suppose Dido didn’t go to sleep, ’cause she was so mad keen on him. Why can’t I copy out something decent, like Keats or Swinburne, instead of this mouldy old Johnny? I should really rather like that.” “Perhaps that’s why they don’t let you,” said Bags, giving him a cup of tea. “Shouldn’t wonder if it was. Thanks awfully, Bags: did you put four lumps of sugar in? Oh then, two more please. But, as regards the patent pen, of course there is a certain risk that Owlers (this, of course, was Mr. Howliss) will spot it and I shall have to do it again. But it ain’t likely three lines apart. Great security in three lines apart.” “You’ve spent most of your time this half writing lines,” said Bags. “I know. I don’t seem to be able to keep out of rows. I don’t want to be late, or cut chapel, or go out of bounds, but I don’t seem to be able to help it. Adams jawed me this morning; said he didn’t know what to do with me, and I’m sure I couldn’t tell him. Maddox is rather sick with me too, which matters more; says I play the goat too much. And he doesn’t know about the seal and this last impot yet. I shall have to tell him though; it’s the best rag I’ve had yet. Yes, more tea, please.” “I think you’re rather an ass, unless you prefer writing out the ‘Æneid’ to any other ploy,” said Bags. “I dare say. But I can’t help it. I simply can’t. I should never have gone to that silly old fair up town last week if they hadn’t put it out of bounds; but when they put it out of bounds I had to go. It wasn’t because I wanted to see the fat woman and the skeleton dude. If I take to smoking, which I haven’t done yet, it won’t be because I like it, which I don’t, but just because it’s against the rules. That’s good enough for me.”