"The Bull" had asked someone in his house what the thing meant. To Ferguson that seemed a high compliment. To be incoherent was a great gift. Swinburne often meant very little, and in his heart of hearts Ferguson thought _Languor_ was, on the whole, more melodious than _Dolores_. But that was, of course, purely a matter of opinion. At any rate, it was a fine composition; and a poet must not dabble in the common intrigues of little minds. He let the House go its own sweet way; and the House was grateful, and gave Ferguson the reputation of being rather a sport. There were no more weekly orders; no more cleaning of corps clothes. There was at last peace in Jerusalem, and plenteousness within her palaces. Simonds was captain of the House. He was working hard for a History scholarship, and could not spend much time in looking after House games. There would be tons of time in the Easter term to train on House sides. So he, too, let things slide, and the House lived a happy life. Those who wanted to play footer, played; those who wanted to work, worked; those who wished to do nothing, did nothing. A cheerful philosophy. For a week it worked quite well. Gordon was lucky enough to find himself in the position of not only not wanting to work, but also not having to. He had got his promotion into V. A, and found it a land of milk and honey. Macdonald, his form master, was one of the most splendid men Fernhurst has ever owned on its staff. For over forty years he had sat in exactly the same chair, and watched generation after generation pass, without appearing the least bit older. He grew a little stout, perhaps. But his heart was the same. It took a lot to trouble him. He realised that the world was too full of sceptics and cynics, and swore that he would not number himself among them. He was now the senior assistant master and the best scholar on the staff. "You know, these young men aren't what we were," he used to say to his form; "not one of them can write a decent copy of Latin verses. All these Cambridge men are useless--useless!" In his form it was unnecessary to work very hard; but in it the average boy learnt more than he learnt anywhere else. For Macdonald was essentially a scholar; he did not merely mug up notes by German commentators an hour before the lesson. For him the classics lived; and he made his form realise this. To do Aristophanes with him was far better than any music hall. Horace he hated. One day when they were doing _Donec gratus eram tibi_, he burst out with wrath: "Horrible little cad he was! Can't you see him? Small man, blue nose with too much drinking. Bibulous little beast. If I had been Lydia I would have smacked his face and told him to go to Chloe. I'd have had done with him. Beastly little cad!"