“Oh, in about ten days now. Don’t talk about lists. Tell me how long you worked this morning. Tell me about the man in your college who works ten hours every day and eleven hours every night. Tell me of the difficulty of learning by heart the Roman emperors or the kings of Israel and Judah. Assure me that by knowing the angle of the sun above the horizon and the length of Feltham’s shadow, you could find out how tall the umpire is.” “He’s about five foot ten,” said Reggie. “That’s like the answers I used to give to the questions about the hands of a watch,” said the Babe. “They tell you that if the hands of a watch are together at twelve--there’s no ‘if’ about it, it is never otherwise,--when will they be together next. I always said about five minutes past one. It seems absurdly simple. I’ve often noticed them together-then: and the same remark applies to about ten minutes past two. That reminds me,” added the Babe, looking at his watch, “that it’s twenty-five minutes past five. The hour hand seems to have gained a little.” “Oh, I remember,” said Reggie. “The hour hand gains seven-elevenths.” “Seven-elevenths of what?” “I don’t know. Of the answer, I suppose. I shouldn’t have thought it was five yet.” “But it is, and that compels us to decide between tea and cricket.” “We can get tea in the pavilion. There’s another four.” “You shall give me a hundred to one that the next ball is not a wicket,” said the Babe. “In pennies, and make it fifty.” “Done.” A very audible click, and an appeal. Reggie got up and felt in his pockets. “I should have been ashamed to get out to a ball like that. You’ll have to pay for tea, Babe. There you are.” “Twopence more,” said the Babe. “Not if I went to the stake for it, Hullo, Ealing, where are you from? Ealing’s got a glorious post-tripos face too. He really deserves to be able to play ‘Praise the Lord, ye heavens, adore Him,’ but he can’t even now.” “Composed by Mr. Haydn,” said Ealing, “and performed by Mr. Ealing. It contains a very difficult passage. Your left hand has to go to the left, and your right hand to the right. You feel all pulled in two. Babe, the tripos is the noblest of inventions. I think I shall go in for a second part. I can quite understand how the lower classes get in such boisterous spirits on bank holidays that they change hats with each other.” “I’d change hats with--with a bishop,” said the Babe, looking wildly about for suggestions. “So would I. Or with Longridge. He wears a blue cake hat. Hullo, they’re all out.” “Come and have tea, then,” said Reggie. “The Babe stands tea.”