An escapade of Billy Duff’s at Baden might have ended in a tragedy. It was in the old days of the gaming tables when the most heterogeneous polyglot crowd, not altogether composed of angels, used to be gathered together in that earthly paradise. Dining at the table d’hôte, Billy found himself sitting next to a portentous personage wearing upon his thumb a huge red Cornelian ring graven with a coronet and a coat of arms of many quarterings. It was summer, and there were green peas, which the personage proceeded to shovel into his mouth with his knife. This offended Billy, who, with sublime impertinence, desired him not to repeat the offence. The Baron or Count, or whatever he was, stared furiously and went on pea-shovelling as before. “I have spoken to you once,” stammered Billy. “D-d-d-don’t let me have to speak again.” This, of course, only made the heraldic personage more angry. So Billy watched his opportunity and nudged his neighbour’s elbow, nearly driving the knife through his cheek. Of course there was a hideous row and a duel the next day, when Billy broke his adversary’s arm. “I did not want to hurt the poor d-d-d-devil much,” said Billy when he told the story. Long years afterwards I was talking to the head of his clan about him. To my amazement he had never even heard of him. Such is fame! It would have been better for me if I had devoted a little less attention to the Fancy and their Corinthian friends, the Toms and Jerrys of the fifties, and had shown a little more respect for the purposes of the University. There was a moment when Moderations, then a modern innovation, came in sight, and I had to cram into something like six weeks work which would have been mastered easily enough with a very small amount of work spread over two years. Osborne Gordon was kindness itself—he took me in hand and made me read Pindar with him, thinking that if he could but cram that into me, it would cover a multitude of sins. The fatal day arrived. I did well enough until I came to Demosthenes; I had only read six orations out of eight, and as ill-luck would have it, two out of the three pieces set happened to be taken out of the unread speeches. Then came the _vivâ voce_—I was taken on in Pindar, and Osborne Gordon, who had come to listen, was delighted when at the end the examiners stood up and took off their caps, usually a sign that the victim who has been upon the rack has got a first-class. My dear tutor met me outside and said all sorts of pretty things. But when the lists came out there was I, a dismal second-class, beaten by two or three rivals whom I had floored over and over again in other examinations. When Osborne Gordon, furious, asked the reason why, the Examiners said that it was impossible to give a first to a young man who had evidently not read his books. Demosthenes had done me! How I cursed him and his pebble and the roaring sea-waves, and Æschines and the ἄνδρες δικασταί[25] and all the rabble of them!