CHAPTER XXVI

THE MADNESS OF W.E. GRIM

Grim and Wilson had come back to St. Amory's firmly convinced that
Biffen's was the most glorious house that had ever existed, and that it
would do--thanks to Acton, Worcester, and the dervishes--great things
when the cricket housers came round.

"Grimmy," said Wilson, "you'll have to try to get into the team this
year. You would last, if your batting hadn't been so rotten."

"All right, old man; don't rub that in too often."

"You put in a lot of extra practice at one of those bottom nets, Grimmy,
and you'll find Worcester'll shove you in first choice, almost, this
go."

"Serene. Shall we try to raise a bottle of cherries now," said Grim,
lazily, lounging from net to net. "It's heaps too soon to think of
housers yet."

"You conceited ass, Grimmy! Not for you. Your batting is too awful."

"Don't worry now. Oceans of time, I tell you. We'll try some cherries,
eh?"

The pair strolled lazily off the field, and made several purchases in
the preserved fruit line, and then adjourned to their common room for
refreshment.

But, as time went on, Grim did not fall in with Wilson's arrangements
quite as enthusiastically as that single-hearted Biffenite would have
liked him to. A fortnight passed, and Grim had only put in the
regulation practice at the nets to Wilson's intense disgust, and the
time that should have been devoted to extra cricket was "wasted,"
according to that ardent Biffenite, in doing, of all things, needlessly
elaborate translations for Merishall.

"Whatever is the good of getting the very word the beak wants, Grimmy. I
always translate _Carmen_--a song. Does it matter a cherry-stone that it
sometimes means a charm? What good does it do you, you idiot? It only
means that Merishall is harder on us. Think of your friends, Grimmy, do.
If I didn't know you were a bit cracked, I'd say your performance was
undiluted 'smugging.'"

"Cork that frivol, do," said Grim, who was stretched full length on the
grass and gazing skywards with a rapt expression in his eyes, "and look
over there. How beautiful it is!"

"How beautiful what is?" asked Wilson, astonished.

"The sunset, you ass!"

"I don't see anything special about it," said Wilson. "An ordinary
affair!"

"Ordinary affair! Ugh, you idiot. Look at those lovely colours mingling
one with another, those light fleecy clouds floating in a purple sea,
that beautiful tint in the woods yonder, that--that--"

"Ste