Philip still remembered the almost dizzy delight he had occasioned his mother by the winning of a mere form prize as second-in-class two years ago. She still treasured it alongside of her Yiddish translations of Holy Writ, in the most intimate recess of her cupboard. Not a word was intelligible to her, of course; she was capable even of holding the book upside down. Yet she would carefully wipe her spectacles and proceed to move her eyes in leisurely transports from page to hieroglyphic page. She was so much attached to the book that he had not had the heart to take it away with him on the melancholy handcart which had transported his goods to Longton. The decision of the Chaucer prize was to be decided an hour after school on a certain day and the official announcement to be made at prayers the following day. In an agony of sick apprehension Philip slunk about the corridors of the school. He was in a state of comatose despair and was staring unseeingly into a case of stuffed beavers and stoats, when a hearty and heavy hand descended on his shoulder. "Well, Philip!" exclaimed the robust voice of Mr. Furness, "and who do you think has won the Chaucer prize?" "Albert Chapman, sir!" suggested Philip weakly. "Try again!" "Jack Lord, sir!" "No, my lad! He lives nearer Angel Street than that! Oh, of course, you live in Longton now! How's your sister?" "You ... you don't mean _me_, sir?" "But I do! Come into my room, I've a poet I think you'll like. Henley! You've not met Henley? _It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishment the scroll!_ Won't your mother be glad, eh? I'm pleased, Philip, very! You're making good again! Let me see, we were quoting Henley. Of course, you remember: _In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud._ No? Here's the book then! ..." Philip ran to Angel Street breathlessly and burst into the kitchen. Reb Monash had already come down and was sipping his glass of lemon-tea. But Philip had no eyes for Reb Monash. "Mother!" he shouted, "I've won! I've won the Chaucer! A five-pound prize! Isn't it grand! I'll be able to buy you a blouse for _yom tov_! And hordes of eggs! Isn't it grand!" She looked towards Reb Monash. He had contracted his forehead. "Hush!" she said in a thin, even voice. "Thy father has a head this afternoon. Make not so much noise!" "Don't you understand? I've won an awfully big prize and I've worked so hard for it!" he said, crestfallen. He had expected she would flush with delight and seize his hands and lift them to her lips, as she did when she was tremendously pleased with him. Instead, here she was showing no sign of pleasure, hardly of interest. "It is well!" she said. "But thou must be quiet! Thou wilt have a cup of tea, wilt thou?" "No!" he muttered, suppressing in his throat a lump of acute disappointment. "I've got to go to Dorah's at once! I promised to do something for her!"