he did, and hence it happened that Smugg,
desiring to form a furnishing fund, organized a reading party, which
Gayford, Tritton, Bird, and I at once joined.

Every morning at nine Smugg, his breakfast finished, cleared his corner
of the table, opened his books, and assumed an expectant air; so Mary
the maid told us; we were never there ourselves; we breakfasted at 9.30
or 10 o'clock, and only about 11 did we clear our corners, light our
pipes, open our books, and discuss the prospects of the day.

As we discussed them, Smugg construed in a gentle bleat; what he
construed or why he construed it (seeing that nobody heeded him) was a
mystery; the whole performance was simply a tribute to Smugg's
conscience, and, as such, was received with good-natured, scornful
toleration.

Suddenly a change came.

One morning there was no Smugg! Yet he had breakfasted--Mary and an
eggshell testified to that effect. He reappeared at 11.30, confused
and very warm (he had exceptional powers in the way of being warm). We
said nothing, and he began to bleat Horace. In a minute of silence I
happened to hear what it was: it referred to a lady of the name of
Pyrrha; the learned may identify the passage for themselves. The next
day the same thing happened except that it was close on twelve before
Smugg appeared. Gayford and Tritton took no notice of the aberration;
Bird congratulated Smugg on the increased docility of his conscience.
I watched him closely as he wiped his brow--he was very warm, indeed.
A third time the scene was enacted; my curiosity was aroused; I made
Mary call me very early, and from the window I espied Smugg leaving the
house at 9.15, and going with rapid, furtive steps along the little
path that led to old Dill's tiny farm. I slipped downstairs, bolted a
cup of tea, seized a piece of toast, and followed Smugg. He was out of
sight, but presently I met Joe Shanks, the butcher's son, who brought
us our chops. Joe was a stout young man, about twenty-one, red-faced,
burly, and greasy. We used to have many jokes with Joe; even Smugg had
before now broken a mild shaft of classical wit on him; in fact, we
made a butt of Joe, and his good-humored, muttony smile told us that he
thought it a compliment.

"Seen Mr. Smugg as you came along, Joe?" I asked.

"Yes, sir. Gone toward Dill's farm, sir."

"Ah, Dill's farm!"

"Yes, sir."

The chop-laden Joe passed on. I mended my pace, and soon found myself
on the outskirts