which he congratulated him on his son’s brilliant success, alluded to
his keen historical instinct and his vivid grasp of events--whatever a
vivid grasp may be--and stated (which was undoubtedly true), that if
certain five men out of the whole University had not happened to go in
for the same tripos the same year, the Babe would infallibly have been
Senior Historian.
An answer came later to Stewart and the Babe. The latter’s was short
but satisfactory. Reggie was breakfasting with him when the post came
in, or rather he was waiting without any excess of patience while the
Babe, whom he had just pulled out of bed, explained precisely how it
was that he was not dressed yet, and urged him not to begin, or if he
insisted on doing so, to play fair.
At this moment the porter entered with the letter, and the Babe
snatched it from his hand, tore it open, and executed a _pas seul_
round the room, until he stepped on the kettle lid, and hurt himself
very much.
“The Babe B.A. will be in residence another year,” he shouted. “You may
eat all the breakfast, if you like.”
Reggie had a healthy appetite, and the Babe was rather plaintive about
it.
Stewart, who had received a letter from the Babe’s father by the same
post, looked in after breakfast with congratulations.
“I am delighted,” he said, “but, in a way, disappointed, and for this
reason: I was looking forward to your _denoûement_ with some interest,
and I should have found a melancholy pleasure in seeing how you would
make your exit from Cambridge, and what piece of extraordinary folly
would have been your last. It seems I shall have to wait another year
for that.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” said the Babe, shrilly. “Say you’re sorry I’m
coming up again straight out, if you like.”
“No. On the whole, I don’t mind waiting another year,” said Stewart.
THE END.