The most important thing that happened to me in my last I two years, apart from my attachment to Dick, was that I got to know George Mallory. He was twenty-six or twenty-seven then, not long up from Cambridge. He was so young looking that he was often mistaken for a member of the school. From the first he treated me as an equal, and I used to spend my spare time reading books in his room or going for walks with him in the country. He told me of the existence of modern authors. My father being two generations older than myself and my only link with books, I had never heard of people like Shaw, Samuel Butler, Rupert Brooke, Wells, Flecker, or Masefield, and I was greatly interested in them. It was at George Mallory’s rooms that I first met Edward Marsh, who has always been a good friend to me, and with whom, though we seldom see each other now, I have never fallen out: in this he is almost unique among my pre-war friends. Marsh said that he liked my poems, which George had showed him, but pointed out that they were written in the poetic vocabulary of fifty years ago and that, though the quality of the poem was not necessarily impaired by this, there would be a natural prejudice in my readers against work written in 1913 in the fashions of 1863. George Mallory, Cyril Hartmann, Raymond, and I published a magazine in the summer of 1913 called _Green Chartreuse_. It was only intended to have one number; new magazines at a public school always sell out the first number and lose heavily on the second. From _Green Chartreuse_ I quote one of my own contributions, of autobiographical interest, written in the school dialect: My New-Bug’s Exam. When lights went out at half-past nine in the evening of the second Friday in the Quarter, and the faint footfalls of the departing House-Master were heard no more, the fun began. The Plead of Under Cubicles constituted himself examiner and executioner, and was ably assisted by a timekeeper, a question-recorder, and a staff of his disreputable friends. I was a timorous ‘new-bug’ then, and my pyjamas were damp with the perspiration of fear. Three of my fellows had been examined and sentenced before the inquisition was directed against me. ‘It’s Jones’ turn now,’ said a voice. ‘He’s the little brute that hacked me in run-about to-day. We must set him some tight questions!’ ‘I say, Jones, what’s the colour of the House-Master—I mean what’s the name of the House-Master of the House, whose colours are black and white? One, two, three....’ ‘Mr. Girdlestone,’ my voice quivered in the darkness. ‘He evidently knows the simpler colours. We’ll muddle him. What are the colours of the Clubs to which Block Houses belong? One, two, three, four....’ I had been slaving at getting up these questions for days, and just managed to blurt out the answer before being counted out. ‘Two questions. No misses. We must buck up,’ said someone.