Gordon very rarely took hall. He generally managed to find someone to assume the duty for him; but one day everyone seemed engaged on some pursuit or other, so with every anticipation of a dull evening he went down to hall. He began to read Shelley but the surroundings were unpropitious. All about him sat huddled fragments of humanity scratching half-baked ideas with crossed nibs into dog-eared notebooks. There was a general air of unrest. Gordon tried _Sinister Street_; some of the episodes in Lepard Street were more in harmony with his feelings, but there was in Compton Mackenzie's prose a Keats-like perfection of phrase which seemed almost as much out of place as _Adonais_. As a last resort he began to talk to the two boys nearest him, Bray and Morcombe. Bray always amused him; his whole outlook on life was so exactly like his footer. But for once Gordon found him dull. Morcombe was so much more interesting. In second hall that evening Gordon discovered from a House list that Morcombe was in the Army class. He consulted Foster on the subject. "Know anything about a lad called Morcombe?" "Yes; he is in the Army class. Rather a fool. Why?" "Oh, nothing. I was talking to him in hall to-night. He didn't seem so bad." "Perhaps he isn't. I haven't taken much interest in him." "I see." Gordon returned to his book. Five minutes later he began again. "Is Morcombe fairly high in form?" "Not very. Why this sudden interest?" "Nothing." Foster looked at him for a second, then burst out laughing. "What the hell's the matter with you?" said Gordon. "Oh, nothing." Gordon looked fierce, and returned once more to the history of Michael Fane. Two nights later Gordon came into his study to find Morcombe sitting with Foster, preparing some con. "Hope you don't mind me bringing this lad in," said Foster, "I am in great difficulties with some con." Gordon grunted, and proceeded to bury himself in _The Pot of Basil_. "I say, Caruthers," broke in Foster. "You might help us with this Vergil? It's got us licked. Here you are: look, 'Fortunate Senex----'" Gordon went through the familiar passage with comparative ease. "There now, you see," said Foster, "there's some use in these Sixth Form slackers after all. By the way, what did you think of Claremont's sermon last night?" Conversation flowed easily. Morcombe was quick, and, at times, amusing. Gordon unaccountably found himself trying to appear at his best. "You know," he was saying, "I do get so sick of these masters who go about with the theory of 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world,' and in war-time, too! With all these men falling, and no advance being made from day to day." "Yes," said Morcombe; "I agree with the 'much good, but much less good than ill' philosophy." Gordon was surprised out of himself. "I shouldn't have thought you had read the _Shropshire Lad_." "We are not all Philistines, you know."