But it was in history that he was at his best. It was a noble sight to see him imitate the weak-kneed, slobbering James I; and he had the private scandals of Henry VIII at his finger-tips. For all commentators he had a profound contempt. One day he seized Farrar's edition of _St Luke_, and holding it at arm's-length between his finger and thumb, shook it before the form. "Filth," he cried, "filth and garbage; take it away and put it down the water-closet." He had a genius for spontaneous comments. Kennedy was very nervous; and whenever he said his rep. he used to hold the seat of his trousers. "Man, man!" Macdonald shouted out, "you won't be able to draw any inspiration from your stern." His form would be in a continuous roar of laughter all day long; and when particularly pleased it always rubbed its feet on the floor, a strange custom that had lasted many years. Claremont's form-room was situated just above him, and he could often hardly hear himself speak. He used to complain bitterly. "How I wish my jovial colleague down below would keep his form a little more in order." But Macdonald got his revenge one day when Claremont was reciting Macbeth's final speech fortissimo to his form. "Hush!" said Macdonald. "We must listen to this." Suddenly he chuckled to himself: "And do you think he really imagines he is doing any good to his form by giving that nigger minstrel entertainment up there?" The roar of laughter that followed quite spoilt the effect of the recitation. Work became quite impossible in V.B. It was about this time that the House began to interest itself in the welfare of Rudd. Rudd was the senior scholar of the year before, and he looked like it. He was fairly tall and very thin. His legs bore little relation to the rest of his body. They fell into place. He was of a dusky countenance, partly because he was of Byzantine origin, partly because he never shaved, chiefly because he did not wash. His clothes always looked as if they had been rolled up into a bundle and used for dormitory football. Perhaps they had. Rudd was not really a bad fellow. He was by way of being a wit. One day the Chief had set the form a three-hour Divinity paper, consisting of four longish questions. One was: "Do you consider that the teaching of Socrates was in some respects more truly Christian than that of St Paul?" Rudd showed up a whole sheet with one word on it: "Yes." Next day his Sixth Form privileges were taken away. But the House took little notice of his academic audacities. Rudd did not wash; he was an insanitary nuisance; moreover, he did not play footer.