"What on earth am I to do?" asked Pembury of Tom Senior one day; "I've not got a single contribution yet. There's you making out you're too busy, and Rick the same. It's all humbug, I know! What are you busy at I'd like to know? I never saw you busy yet." "Upon my word, old man," said Tom, "I'm awfully sorry, but I've got a tremendous lot to do. I'm going to try for the French prize; I am, really." "And you'll get it, too; rather! Wasn't it you who translated `I know the way to write' into `_Je non le chemin a writer_' eh? Oh, stick to French by all means, Tom; it's in your line! But you might just as well write for Number 2." "I really can't this time," said Tom. Ricketts had an excuse very similar. Bullinger had hurt his foot, he said, and could not possibly write; and Braddy had begun to study fossils, he said, and was bound to devote all his spare time to them. To all of whom Master Pembury gave a piece of his mind. "Wray, old man," said he, that evening, "you and Noll and I shall have to do the whole thing between us, that's all about it." "Awfully sorry!" said Wraysford; "you'll have to let me off this time. I'm working like nails for the Nightingale." "Bother the Nightingale, I say! What is it to the _Dominican_? Come, I say, old man, that won't do! you aren't going to leave me in the lurch like all the rest?" But Wraysford was; he would gladly have helped if he could, but he really must not this time; perhaps he would for the next. Oliver was as bad; he declared the things he had written before--even with Pembury's assistance--had taken him such ages to do, that he wasn't going in for the next number. He was very sorry to disappoint, and all that; but if Tony was in for a scholarship next Michaelmas he would understand the reason. Why not let the thing drop this month? This, however, by no means met Tony's views. A pretty figure he would cut if it were to be said he couldn't keep up a paper for two numbers running! No! his mind was made up. Number 2 _should_ come out, even if he wrote every word of it himself! And with that determination he hobbled off to his study. Here he met Simon waiting for him. "Oh," said the poet; "I only brought this, if you'll put it in. I think it's not bad. I could make it longer if you like. I find poetry comes so easily, you know!" Tony glanced over the paper and grinned. "Thanks, awfully! This will do capitally; it would spoil it to make it any longer. You're a brick, Simon! I wish _I_ could write poetry." "Oh, never mind. I could do some more bits about other things, you know, if you like." Pembury said he didn't think he should require any more "bits," but was awfully obliged by this one, which was first-rate, a recommendation which sent Simon away happy to his study, there immediately to compose the opening stanza of his famous epic, "The Sole's Allegery--a sacred Poem."