"I showed him the paper, because I thought he had sent it; but I didn't tell him who gave it to me." "Then why does he want me?" "He wants the boy who gave me the paper, that's all he said," answered Stephen, walking off sulkily to his quarters, and leaving Anthony to receive the rebukes of Dr Senior, and make his apologies for his evil deeds as best he could. The offence after all was not a very terrible one, and Pembury got off with a mild reprimand on the evils of practical joking, at the end of which he found himself in his usual amiable frame of mind, and harbouring no malice against his innocent victim. "Greenfield," said he, when shortly afterwards he met Oliver, "I owe your young brother an apology." "What on earth for?" "I set him an examination paper to answer, which I'm afraid caused him some labour. Never mind, it was all for the best." "What, did that paper he was groaning over come from you? What a shame, Tony, to take advantage of a little beggar like him!" "I'm awfully sorry, tell him; but I say, Greenfield, it'll make a splendid paragraph for the _Dominican_. By the way, are you going to let me have that poem you promised on the Guinea-pigs?" "I can't get on with it at all," said Oliver. "I'm stuck for a rhyme in the second line." "Oh, stick down anything. How does it begin?" "`Oh, dwellers in the land of dim perpetual,'" began Oliver. "Very good; let's see; how would this do?-- "`I hate the day when first I met you all, And this I undertake to bet you all, One day I'll into trouble get you all, And down the playground steps upset you all, And with a garden hose I'll wet you all, And then--'" "Oh, look here," said Oliver, "that'll do. You may as well finish the thing right out at that rate." "Not at all, my dear fellow. It was just a sudden inspiration, you know. Don't mention it, and you may like to get off that rhyme into another. But I say, Greenfield, we shall have a stunning paper for the first one. Tom Senior has written no end of a report of the last meeting of the Sixth Form Debating Society, quite in the parliamentary style; and Bullinger is writing a history of Saint Dominic's, `gathered from the earliest sources,' as he says, in which he's taking off most of the Sixth. Simon is writing a love-ballad, which is sure to be fun; and Ricketts is writing a review of Liddell and Scott's _Lexicon_; and Wraysford is engaged on `The Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.'" "Good!" said Oliver, "and what are _you_ writing?" "Oh, the leading article, you know, and the personal notes, and `Squeaks from Guineapigland and Tadpoleopolis,' and some of the advertisements. Come up to my study, you and Wray, this evening after prayers, I say, and we'll go through it." And off hobbled the editor of the _Dominican_, leaving Oliver greatly impressed with his literary talents, especially in the matter of finding rhymes for "perpetual."