ith him. By help of a dictionary he worries it out in the
original Greek. This gives him a passion for Greek.

When he has romped through the Greek classics he plays about among the
Latins. He spends most of his spare time in that library, and forgets to
go to tea.

Because he always "gets there," without any trouble.

That is the sort of boy he is. How I used to hate him! If he has a
proper sort of father, then he goes to college. He does no work: there
is no need for him to work: everything seems to come to him. That was
another grievance of mine against him. I always had to work a good deal,
and very little came of it. He fools around doing things that other men
would be sent down for; but in his case the professors love him for it
all the more. He is the sort of man who can't do wrong. A fortnight
before the examination he ties a wet towel round his head. That is all
we hear about it. It seems to be the towel that does it. Maybe, if the
towel is not quite up to its work, he will help things on by drinking
gallons of strong tea. The tea and the towel combined are irresistible:
the result is always the senior wranglership.

I used to believe in that wet towel and that strong tea. Lord! the
things I used to believe when I was young. They would make an
Encyclopaedia of Useless Knowledge. I wonder if the author of the
popular novel has ever tried working with a wet towel round his or her
head: I have. It is difficult enough to move a yard, balancing a dry
towel. A heathen Turk may have it in his blood to do so: the ordinary
Christian has not got the trick of it. To carry about a wet towel
twisted round one's head needs a trained acrobat. Every few minutes the
wretched thing works loose. In darkness and in misery, you struggle to
get your head out of a clammy towel that clings to you almost with
passion. Brain power is wasted in inventing names for that towel--names
expressive of your feelings with regard to it. Further time is taken up
before the glass, fixing the thing afresh.

You return to your books in the wrong temper, the water trickles down
your nose, runs in rivulets down your back. Until you have finally flung
the towel out of the window and rubbed yourself dry, work is impossible.
The strong tea always gave me indigestion, and made me sleepy. Until I
had got over the effects of the tea, attempts at study were useless.

Because he's so damned clever.

But the thing t