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He was reduced to such straits for amusement, that one Wednesday afternoon, finding himself with nothing else to do, he was working at a burlesque and remarkably scurrilous article on ‘The Staff, by one who has suffered’, which he was going to insert in The Glow Worm, an unofficial periodical which he had started for the amusement of the School and his own and his contributors’ profit. He was just warming to his work, and beginning to enjoy himself, when the door opened without a preliminary knock. Charteris deftly slid a piece of blotting-paper over his MS., for Merevale occasionally entered a study in this manner. And though there was nothing about Merevale himself in the article, it would be better perhaps, thought Charteris, if he did not see it. But it was not Merevale. It was somebody far worse. The Babe.

The Babe was clothed as to his body in football clothes, and as to face, in a look of holy enthusiasm. Charteris knew what that look meant. It meant that the Babe was going to try and drag him out for a run.

‘Go away, Babe,’ he said, ‘I’m busy.’

‘Why on earth are you slacking in here on this ripping afternoon?’

‘Slacking!’ said Charteris. ‘I like that. I’m doing berrain work, Babe. I’m writing an article on masters and their customs, which will cause a profound sensation in the Common Room. At least it would, if they ever saw it, but they won’t. Or I hope they won’t for their sake and mine. So run away, my precious Babe, and don’t disturb your uncle when he’s busy.’

‘Rot,’ said the Babe firmly, ‘you haven’t taken any exercise for a week.’

Charteris replied proudly that he had wound up his watch only last night. The Babe refused to accept the remark as relevant to the matter in hand.

‘Look here, Alderman,’ he said, sitting down on the table, and gazing sternly at his victim, ‘it’s all very well, you know, but the final comes on in a few days, and you know you aren’t in any too good training.’

‘I am,’ said Charteris, ‘I’m as fit as a prize fighter. Simply full of beans. Feel my ribs.’

The Babe declined the offer.

‘No, but I say,’ he said plaintively, ‘I wish you’d treat it seriously. It’s getting jolly serious, really. If Dacre’s win that cup again this year, that’ll make four years running.’

‘Not so,’ said Charteris, like the mariner of infinite-resource-and-sagacity; ‘not so, but far otherwise. It’ll only make three.’

‘Well, three’s bad enough.’

‘True, oh king, three is quite bad enough.’

‘Well, then, there you are. Now you see.’

Charteris looked puzzled.

‘Would you mind explaining that remark?’ he said. ‘Slowly.’

But the Babe had got off the table, and was prowling round the room, opening cupboards and boxes.

‘What are you playing at?’ enquired Charteris.

‘Where do you keep your footer things?’

‘What do you want with my footer things, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I’m going to help you put them on, and then you’re coming for a run.’

‘Ah,’ said Charteris.

‘Yes. Just a gentle spin to keep you in training. Hullo, this looks like them.’

He plunged both hands into a box near the window and flung out a mass of football clothes. It reminded Charteris of a terrier digging at a rabbit-hole.

He protested.

‘Don’t, Babe. Treat ’em tenderly. You’ll be spoiling the crease in those bags if you heave ’em about like that. I’m very particular about how I look on the football field. I was always taught to dress myself like a little gentleman, so to speak. Well, now you’ve seen them, put ’em away.’

‘Put ’em on,’ said the Babe firmly.

‘You are a beast, Babe. I don’t want to go for a run. I’m getting too old for violent exercise.’

‘Buck up,’ said the Babe. ‘We mustn’t chuck any chances away. Now that Tony can’t play, we shall have to do all we know if we want to win.’

‘I don’t see what need there is to get nervous about it. Considering we’ve got three of the First three-quarter line, and the Second Fifteen back, we ought to do pretty well.’