“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said the Babe with dignity, and on this point he was quite polite but perfectly firm. They rowed a mile or so farther up, and the Babe selected a suitable place for dinner, at the edge of a hayfield and under a willow tree, and a smile of kind indulgence towards the world in general began to overscore his fruitless regrets of the afternoon. It was after eight when they began dinner, and the Babe’s commissariat was plentiful and elaborate. The only dish that failed to give satisfaction was the toasted cheese with which he insisted they should finish dinner. It was made in the tea kettle, and when melted, poured out through the spout on to biscuits. Mr. Sykes and the Babe alone attempted to eat it, and Mr. Sykes who ate less than the Babe was excessively unwell shortly afterwards. “But for that,” said the Babe, drinking Chartreuse out of a tea-cup, “I blame the lobster.” The moon, as big as a bandbox, was just rising clear of the trees, and the Babe produced cigars. “For mine,” he said, “is one of those rare, generous natures that does unto others what it would not do unto itself. It all comes in the catechism. I will thank any one for a simple paper cigarette.” “Speech,” said Ealing. “As Stewart.” The Babe bowed, and began, drawling out his words in a low, slow, musical voice. “Mr. Sykes and gentlemen,” he said, “the May week is upon us, and we, like the _Cambridge Review_, are at the end of another year of University life and thought. Some of us--most of us in fact, have experienced for two years the widening influence and varied duties which are inseparable from the minds of any of those who embark upon the harvest of University curriculum with any earnestness of purpose, or seriousness of aim. I think, in fact, I am right in believing that my friend Mr. Reginald Bristow alone--to continue a few of my less mixed metaphors--has put out only a year’s space upon the sea of those special features, which mark the career and are the hinge of the prospects of those miners after perfectly useless knowledge who seek to increase their general ignorance among the purlieus of Alma Mater. Some of us have failed in attaining the objects of our various ambitions, and I am happy to say that none of us have really tried to do so. We have none of us gone to the devil, and he with characteristic exclusiveness has kept aloof from us all. [Cheers] We none of us play cricket for the University, though I once knew a man who got his extra square at chess; he was a dear boy, but he is dead now, and there is not the slightest fear that anything will prevent us from being unable to fail in obtaining a very respectable place in our Triposes. Yes, the May week, which occurs in June and lasts a fortnight, spoken of, I may say sung of in the pages of the _Junior Dean_ and _The Fellow of Trinity_, is upon us. Personally I detest the May week and I am subscribing to the Grace testimonial fund simply and solely because