“You bally ass! Yet I don’t know. It’s our fault. You couldn’t tell that the pool would behave in that manner, and I know, personally, I should find it out of the question to say one was playing for more than one could afford. Some people call it moral cowardice, it seems to me a perfectly natural reticence.” “Of course I won’t play again,” said Feltham. “Why have you been so awfully good to me?” “I haven’t. What else was I to do? Oh, yes, and I think I respected you for telling the truth. Most fellows would have lied like George Washington.” Feltham smiled feebly. “All that remains is this,” said the Babe. “Of course I must tell those other two fellows about it, the two I mean with whom I talked, but you can trust them absolutely. It is impossible that anyone else should ever know about it.” “You don’t think--oughtn’t I to tell them all?” stammered Feltham. The Babe frowned. “Of course you ought not. Why the deuce should you? About the money--it must be divided up between us all. Six into twenty, about three pound ten each. Rather an awkward sum.” “Why six?” “Because there were six of us.” “I can’t take any.” “Your feelings have nothing to do with it,” remarked the Babe. “The money in the pool of course belongs to everyone. You return the others’ shares of that £20 and keep your own. Well, I’ll manage it somehow. I will make absurd bets, seventy to one in shillings. That will surprise nobody: I often do it. Good Lord, it’s a quarter to eight. If you’re going into Hall, you’ll be very late, and so shall I for my dinner. I must go. Oh, by the way, did you lose much altogether?” “About twenty-five pounds.” “Is it, is it”--began the Babe. “I mean, are you in a hole? If so, I wish you’d let me lend you some money. Why shouldn’t you? No? Are you sure you don’t want some? It’s no use receiving unpleasant letters from one’s father, when there’s no need. Well as you like. Good-night. Come round and look me up some time: I’m on the next stair-case.” Feltham followed him to the door. “I can’t tell you what I feel,” he said huskily, “but I am not ungrateful. Half an hour ago you asked me to shake hands with you. Will you shake hands with me?” “Why, surely,” said the Babe. XIX.--IN THE FIFTIES. He sailed his little paper boats, And when the folk thought scorn of that, He spudded up the waiting worm And yearned towards the master’s hat. HOTCH-POTCH VERSES.