Another person who was enjoying life was Pringle of the School House. The keynote of Pringle’s character was superiority. At an early period of his life—he was still unable to speak at the time—his grandmother had died. This is probably the sole reason why he had never taught that relative to suck eggs. Had she lived, her education in that direction must have been taken in hand. Baffled in this, Pringle had turned his attention to the rest of the human race. He had a rooted conviction that he did everything a shade better than anybody else. This belief did not make him arrogant at all, and certainly not offensive, for he was exceedingly popular in the School. But still there were people who thought that he might occasionally draw the line somewhere. Watson, the ground-man, for example, thought so when Pringle primed him with advice on the subject of preparing a wicket. And Langdale, who had been captain of the team five years before, had thought so most decidedly, and had not hesitated to say so when Pringle, then in his first term and aged twelve, had stood behind the First Eleven net and requested him peremptorily to ‘keep ‘em down, sir, keep ‘em down’. Indeed, the great man had very nearly had a fit on that occasion, and was wont afterwards to attribute to the effects of the shock so received a sequence of three ‘ducks’ which befell him in the next three matches.
In short, in every department of life, Pringle’s advice was always (and generally unsought) at everybody’s disposal. To round the position off neatly, it would be necessary to picture him as a total failure in the practical side of all the subjects in which he was so brilliant a theorist. Strangely enough, however, this was not the case. There were few better bats in the School than Pringle. Norris on his day was more stylish, and Marriott not infrequently made more runs, but for consistency Pringle was unrivalled.
That was partly the reason why at this time he was feeling pleased with life. The School had played three matches up to date, and had won them all. In the first, an Oxford college team, containing several Old Beckfordians, had been met and routed, Pringle contributing thirty-one to a total of three hundred odd. But Norris had made a century, which had rather diverted the public eye from this performance. Then the School had played the Emeriti, and had won again quite comfortably. This time his score had been forty-one, useful, but still not phenomenal. Then in the third match, versus Charchester, one of the big school matches of the season, he had found himself. He ran up a hundred and twenty-three without a chance, and felt that life had little more to offer. That had been only a week ago, and the glow of satisfaction was still pleasantly warm.
It was while he was gloating silently in his study over the bat with which a grateful Field Sports Committee had presented him as a reward for this feat, that he became aware that Lorimer, his study companion, appeared to be in an entirely different frame of mind to his own. Lorimer was in the Upper Fifth, Pringle in the Remove. Lorimer sat at the study table gnawing a pen in a feverish manner that told of an overwrought soul. Twice he uttered sounds that were obviously sounds of anguish, half groans and half grunts. Pringle laid down his bat and decided to investigate.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘This bally poem thing,’ said Lorimer.
‘Poem? Oh, ah, I know.’ Pringle had been in the Upper Fifth himself a year before, and he remembered that every summer term there descended upon that form a Bad Time in the shape of a poetry prize. A certain Indian potentate, the Rajah of Seltzerpore, had paid a visit to the school some years back, and had left behind him on his departure certain monies in the local bank, which were to be devoted to providing the Upper Fifth with an annual prize for the best poem on a subject to be selected by the Headmaster. Entrance was compulsory. The wily authorities knew very well that if it had not been, the entries for the prize would have been somewhat small. Why the Upper Fifth were so favoured in preference to the Sixth or Remove is doubtful. Possibly it was felt that, what with the Jones History, the Smith Latin Verse, the Robinson Latin Prose, and the De Vere Crespigny Greek Verse, and other trophies open only to members of the Remove and Sixth, those two forms had enough to keep them occupied as it was. At any rate, to the Upper Fifth the prize was given, and every year, three weeks after the commencement of the summer term, the Bad Time arrived.
‘Can’t you get on?’ asked Pringle.
‘No.’
‘What’s the subject?’
‘Death of Dido.’
‘Something to be got out of that, surely.’
‘Wish you’d tell me what.’
‘Heap of things.’
‘Such as what? Can’t see anything myself. I call it perfectly indecent dragging the good lady out of her well-earned tomb at this time of day. I’ve looked her up in the Dic. of Antiquities, and it appears that she committed suicide some years ago. Body-snatching, I call it. What do I want to know about her?’
‘What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba?’ murmured Pringle.
‘Hecuba?’ said Lorimer, looking puzzled, ‘What’s Hecuba got to do with it?’
‘I was only quoting,’ said Pringle, with gentle superiority.
‘Well, I wish instead of quoting rot you’d devote your energies to helping me with these beastly verses. How on earth shall I begin?’
‘You might adapt my quotation. “What’s Dido got to do with me, or I to do with Dido?” I rather like that. Jam it down. Then you go on in a sort of rag-time metre. In the “Coon Drum-Major” style. Besides, you see, the beauty of it is that you administer a wholesome snub to the examiner right away. Makes him sit up at once. Put it down.’
Lorimer bit off another quarter of an inch of his pen. ‘You needn’t be an ass,’ he said shortly.
‘My dear chap,’ said Pringle, enjoying himself immensely, ‘what on earth is the good of my offering you suggestions if you won’t take them?’
Lorimer said nothing. He bit off another mouthful of penholder.
‘Well, anyway,’ resumed Pringle. ‘I can’t see why you’re so keen on the business. Put down anything. The beaks never make a fuss about these special exams.’
‘It isn’t the beaks I care about,’ said Lorimer in an injured tone of voice, as if someone had been insinuating that he had committed some crime, ‘only my people are rather keen on my doing well in this exam.’
‘Why this exam, particularly?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. My grandfather or someone was a bit of a pro at verse in his day, I believe, and they think it ought to run in the family.’
Pringle examined the situation in all its aspects. ‘Can’t you get along?’ he enquired at length.
‘Not an inch.’