er palaces.

Simonds was captain of the House. He was working hard for a History
scholarship, and could not spend much time in looking after House games.
There would be tons of time in the Easter term to train on House sides.
So he, too, let things slide, and the House lived a happy life. Those
who wanted to play footer, played; those who wanted to work, worked;
those who wished to do nothing, did nothing. A cheerful philosophy. For
a week it worked quite well.

Gordon was lucky enough to find himself in the position of not only not
wanting to work, but also not having to. He had got his promotion into
V. A, and found it a land of milk and honey. Macdonald, his form master,
was one of the most splendid men Fernhurst has ever owned on its staff.
For over forty years he had sat in exactly the same chair, and watched
generation after generation pass, without appearing the least bit older.
He grew a little stout, perhaps. But his heart was the same. It took a
lot to trouble him. He realised that the world was too full of sceptics
and cynics, and swore that he would not number himself among them. He
was now the senior assistant master and the best scholar on the staff.

"You know, these young men aren't what we were," he used to say to his
form; "not one of them can write a decent copy of Latin verses. All
these Cambridge men are useless--useless!" In his form it was
unnecessary to work very hard; but in it the average boy learnt more
than he learnt anywhere else. For Macdonald was essentially a scholar;
he did not merely mug up notes by German commentators an hour before the
lesson. For him the classics lived; and he made his form realise this.
To do Aristophanes with him was far better than any music hall. Horace
he hated. One day when they were doing _Donec gratus eram tibi_, he
burst out with wrath:

"Horrible little cad he was! Can't you see him? Small man, blue nose
with too much drinking. Bibulous little beast. If I had been Lydia I
would have smacked his face and told him to go to Chloe. I'd have had
done with him. Beastly little cad!"

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.

"Filt