“Hardly that. He gives his orders to the tradesmen: they supply him, for forty, sometimes fifty, years, at their own risk: then he gets his Fellowship—which pays him in _one_ year as much as _your_ Fellowships pay in fifty—and then he can easily pay all his bills, with interest.” “But suppose he fails to get his Fellowship? That must occasionally happen.” “That occasionally happens.” It was Mein Herr’s turn, now, to make admissions. “And what becomes of the tradesmen?” “They calculate accordingly. When a man appears to be getting alarmingly ignorant, or stupid, they will sometimes refuse to supply him any longer. You have no idea with what enthusiasm a man will begin to rub up his forgotten sciences or languages, when his butcher has cut off the supply of beef and mutton!” “And who are the Examiners?” “The young men who have just come, brimming over with knowledge. You would think it a curious sight,” he went on, “to see mere boys examining such old men. I have known a man set to examine his own grandfather. It was a little painful for both of them, no doubt. The old gentleman was as bald as a coot——” “How bald would that be?” I’ve no idea why I asked this question. I felt I was getting foolish. CHAPTER XIV. BRUNO’S PICNIC. “As bald as bald,” was the bewildering reply. “Now, Bruno, I’ll tell you a story.” “And I’ll tell _oo_ a story,” said Bruno, beginning in a great hurry for fear of Sylvie getting the start of him: “once there were a Mouse—a little tiny Mouse—such a tiny little Mouse! Oo never saw such a tiny Mouse——” “Did nothing ever happen to it, Bruno?” I asked. “Haven’t you anything more to tell us, besides its being so tiny?” “Nothing never happened to it,” Bruno solemnly replied. “Why did nothing never happen to it?” said Sylvie, who was sitting, with her head on Bruno’s shoulder, patiently waiting for a chance of beginning _her_ story. “It were too tiny,” Bruno explained. “_That’s_ no reason!” I said. “However tiny it was, things might happen to it.” Bruno looked pityingly at me, as if he thought me very stupid. “It were too tiny,” he repeated. “If anything happened to it, it would die—it were so _very_ tiny!” “Really that’s enough about its being tiny!” Sylvie put in. “Haven’t you invented any more about it?” “Haven’t invented no more yet.” “Well then, you shouldn’t begin a story till you’ve invented more! Now be quiet, there’s a good boy, and listen to _my_ story.” And Bruno, having quite exhausted all his inventive faculty, by beginning in too great a hurry, quietly resigned himself to listening. “Tell about the other Bruno, please,” he said coaxingly. Sylvie put her arms round his neck, and began:—— “The wind was whispering among the trees,” (“That wasn’t good manners!” Bruno interrupted. “Never mind about manners,” said Sylvie) “and it was evening—a nice moony evening, and the Owls were hooting——”