The Babe was lying at the bottom of a Canadian canoe on his back, singing low to his beloved. At least he was not exactly singing, but swearing gently at Sykes, who had laid himself down on his stomach and the day was too hot to have bulldogs on one’s stomach. The Babe about an hour ago had landed to see if Reggie was in, and finding his rooms empty and ungarnished, tied his canoe up to the bank to sleep and read a little _Ravenshoe_ for an hour, but it had slipped its cable and as he had left the paddle on the bank it had required only a few moments reflection to convince him that he was hopelessly and completely at the mercy of the winds and waters, like Danaë, the mother of Perseus, in her wooden chest, and that his destiny was no longer in his own hands. As then, there was nothing whatever to be done, he did nothing in serene content. He would soon bump against the arches of Clare Bridge, but until that happened there was no step he could possibly take. It was just three days before his tripos began, and the Babe, with a wisdom beyond his years, was taking three complete holidays. He argued that as it already seemed to him that his brain was one turbid mass of undigested facts and dates, the best thing he could do was not to swallow more, but to let what he had settle down a little. For a fortnight before he had been working really hard, going over the ground again, and for the next three days he meant neither to think nor do anything whatever. As he expressed it himself after last Sunday morning chapel, “I am going,” he said “to eat and sleep and do and be simply that which pleases me.” He was roused by a loud injured voice not far off shouting, “Look ahead, sir,” and he sat up. His boat, as is the ineradicable habit of Canadian canoes, had drifted broadside across the river and was fouling the course of an outrigger which was wanting to come up. “I’m very sorry,” shouted the Babe, “but I’ve lost my paddle. Hallo, Feltham, is that you?” “It’s me, Babe. What can I do for you, and what do you mean by fouling my waterway? Where is your paddle?” The Babe looked round. “Oh, it’s up there on the bank, by the King’s Bridge. Can’t I catch hold of the tail of your boat, then you might tow me up there?” “All right, but don’t call it a tail, as some rowing man will hear you and have a fit. Let me get clear. Are you slacking, to-day?” “Yes, and for the next two days. My tripos begins on Monday, and I think that if I do nothing for a day or two I may be able to remember again who the Electric Sophia was.” “Is she important? She sounds as if she might be the wife of the man who discovered lightning.” “Don’t confuse me further,” said the Babe. “Where are you off to?” “Oh, up the river. There’s no cricket to-day.” “I didn’t know that people who played cricket ever rowed.” “They don’t for the most part: but I don’t consider that a reason for not doing so if I wish.” “Are you playing for the ‘Varsity on Monday?”