“Jack has the makings of a comedian about him,” said Reggie, “but just now he’s very serious. There is an epidemic of sapping abroad, but if it wasn’t sapping, it would probably be influenza, so we can’t complain. You’re touched with it, Babe, and Jack’s got it badly. I went to see him yesterday, and he was analysing the second Punic war in a large square note-book with notes on the Wasps at the other end.” “I know. And he was quite angry when I ventured to speak disrespectfully of Hannibal. He called me a funny ass, and implied that Hannibal was more than a father to him. Also he has taken to red ink which is one of the worst signs. I went into his room in the dark one day last week, and upset something. It proved to be a stone bottle of red ink, rather larger than a ginger-beer bottle and quite full. Also the cork was out, and after that there was no further need for the cork. It would have been like locking the stable door when the steed was spilt--I mean, stolen. I pointed that out to him, for it was surely consoling to know that no more red ink could be spilt in his rooms, unless he was rash enough to buy some more, in which case, so to speak, it would have been on his own head, which would be worse than on the carpet, but he only murmured, ‘Caius Flaminius Secundus,’ and asked if I was sitting on his classical dictionary.” “And were you?” “I think it turned out that he was. So I called him a sap, and went away.” “I hate a sap,” said Reggie with a certain dignity. “We used to call a sap a groutbags at my private school,” said Ealing. “Why?” “I don’t know what else you could call them. I was a groutbags once myself.” The Babe yawned. “I feel rather futile,” he said. “I wanted to be amused, and you fellows would go for a walk. Let’s play ‘Kiss in the slipper,’ or something.” “I hear you played Van John till two this morning,” said Reggie. The Babe stopped in the middle of his yawn. “Yes, a little after two, I think. We played Van John and other things. I lost six pounds. Blow the expense. Do you know Feltham of this college?” “No, why?” “Oh, nothing. He was there, that’s all.” “Nice chap?” “Nothing particular. Oh, yes, quite nice, I should think, but he went away as soon as we shut up playing. I hardly know him--in fact I never met him before. Hullo, it’s seven. I must go.” “Where are you going?” “Only to see a man I know, as the Apostles say. Are either of you dining with Stewart to-night?” “Yes, I am,” said Reggie. “At eight, isn’t it?” “Yes. Be punctual, because I’m so hungry.” XVII.--A LITTLE GAME. Whist is slow, but baccarat bites, Baccarat bites, and we want to be bit; Late comes dawn on these winter nights, And you need no knowledge to play at it. HOTCH-POTCH VERSES.