les. "Oh, yes,
Swinburne--pirated American edition. Seventeen shillings and sixpence."

"Couldn't you take less?" asked Michael, with a vague hope that he might
rescue a shilling for his mother, if not for cigarettes.

"Take less?" repeated the bookseller. "Good gracious, young man, do you
know what you'd have to pay for Swinburne's stuff separate? Something
like seven or eight pounds, and then they'd be all in different volumes.
Whereas here you've got--lemme see--Atalanta in Calydon, Chastelard,
Poems and Ballads, Songs before Sunrise, Bothwell, Tristram of Lyonesse,
Songs of Two Nations, and heaven knows what not. I call seventeen
shillings and sixpence very cheap for what you might almost call a man's
life-work. Shall I wrap it up?"

"Yes, please," said Michael, gasping with the effect of the plunge.

But when that night he read

_Swallow, my sister, O fair swift swallow,_

he forgot all about the cost.

The more of Swinburne that Michael read, the more impatient he grew of
school. The boredom of Mr. Cray's class became stupendous; and Michael,
searching for some way to avoid it, decided to give up Classics and
apply for admission to the History Sixth, which was a small association
of boys who had drifted into this appendix for the purpose of defeating
the ordinary rules of promotion. For instance, when the Captain of the
School Eleven had not attained the privileged Sixth, he was often
allowed to enter the History Sixth, in order that he might achieve the
intellectual dignity which consorted with his athletic prowess.

Michael had for some time envied the leisure of the History Sixth, with
its general air of slackness and its form-master, Mr. Kirkham, who, on
account of holding many administrative positions important to the
athletic life of the school, was so often absent from his class-room. He
now racked his brains for an excuse to achieve the idle bliss of these
charmed few. Finally he persuaded his mother to write to the Headmaster
and apply for his admission, on the grounds of the greater utility of
History in his future profession.

"But what are you going to be, Michael?" asked his mother.

"I don't know, but you can say I'm going to be a barrister or
something."

"Is History better for a barrister?"

"I don't know, but you can easily say you think it is."

In the end his mother wrote to Dr. Brownjohn, and one grey November
afternoon the Headmaster sailed into the class-room of the Upper F