I knew the question absurd. I asked it of him because I wanted him to ask it of me. “They're not giving away anything I particularly want,” murmured Dan, in his lazy drawl: looked at from that point of view, school prizes are, it must be confessed, not worth their cost. “You're sweating yourself, young 'un, of course?” he asked next, as I expected. “I mean to have a shot at the History,” I admitted. “Wish I was better at dates.” “It's always two-thirds dates,” Dan assured me, to my discouragement. “Old Florret thinks you can't eat a potato until you know the date that chap Raleigh was born.” “I've prayed so hard that I may win the History prize,” I explained to him. I never felt shy with Dan. He never laughed at me. “You oughtn't to have done that,” he said. I stared. “It isn't fair to the other fellows. That won't be your winning the prize; that will be your getting it through favouritism.” “But they can pray, too,” I reminded him. “If you all pray for it,” answered Dan, “then it will go, not to the fellow that knows most history, but to the fellow that's prayed the hardest. That isn't old Florret's idea, I'm sure.” “But we are told to pray for things we want,” I insisted. “Beastly mean way of getting 'em,” retorted Dan. And no argument that came to me, neither then nor at any future time, brought him to right thinking on this point. He would judge all matters for himself. In his opinion Achilles was a coward, not a hero. “He ought to have told the Trojans that they couldn't hurt any part of him except his heel, and let them have a shot at that,” he argued; “King Arthur and all the rest of them with their magic swords, it wasn't playing the game. There's no pluck in fighting if you know you're bound to win. Beastly cads, I call them all.” I won no prize that year. Oddly enough, Dan did, for arithmetic; the only subject studied in the Lower Fourth that interested him. He liked to see things coming right, he explained. My father shut himself up with me for half an hour and examined me himself. “It's very curious, Paul,” he said, “you seem to know a good deal.” “They asked me all the things I didn't know. They seemed to do it on purpose,” I blurted out, and laid my head upon my arm. My father crossed the room and sat down beside me. “Spud!” he said--it was a long time since he had called me by that childish nickname--“perhaps you are going to be with me, one of the unlucky ones.” “Are you unlucky?” I asked. “Invariably,” answered my father, rumpling his hair. “I don't know why. I try hard--I do the right thing, but it turns out wrong. It always does.” “But I thought Mr. Hasluck was bringing us such good fortune,” I said, looking up in surprise. “We're getting on, aren't we?” “I have thought so before, so often,” said my father, “and it has always ended in a--in a collapse.” I put my arms round his neck, for I always felt to my father as to another boy; bigger than myself and older, but not so very much.