would inevitably be lost long before
the Schools. At the same time it was rather lazy to lie back like this
so early in the morning. Why was it so difficult to abandon the Sirenian
creakings of this chair? He wanted another match for his second pipe,
but even the need for that was not violent enough to break the luxurious
catalepsy of his present condition.

Then suddenly Maurice Avery and Nigel Stewart burst into the room, and
Michael by a supreme effort plunged upward onto his legs to receive
them.

"My hat, what a frowst!" exclaimed Maurice, rushing to the window and
letting in the mist and the noise of the High.

"We're very hearty this morning," murmured Stewart. "I heard Mass at
Barney's for the success of the O.L.G."

"Nigel and I have walked down the High, rounded the Corn, and back along
the Broad and the Turl," announced Maurice. "And how many copies do you
think we saw bought by people we didn't know?"

"None," guessed Michael maliciously.

"Don't be an ass. Fifteen. Well, I've calculated that at least four
times as many were being sold, while we were making our round. That's
sixty, and it's not half-past ten yet. We ought to do another three
hundred easily before lunch. In fact, roughly I calculate we shall do
five hundred and twenty before to-night. Not bad. After two thousand we
shall be making money."

"Maurice bought twenty-two copies himself," said Stewart, laughing, and
lest he should seem to be laughing at Maurice thrust an affectionate arm
through his to reassure him.

"Well, I wanted to encourage the boys who were selling them," Maurice
explained.

"They'll probably emigrate with the money they've made out of you,"
predicted Michael. "And what on earth are you going to do with
twenty-two copies? I find this one copy of mine extraordinarily in the
way."

"Oh, I shall send them to well-known literary people in town. In fact,
I'm going to write round and get the best-known old Oxford men to give
us contributions from time to time, without payment, of course. I expect
they'll be rather pleased at being asked."

"Don't you think it may turn their heads?" Michael anxiously suggested.
"It would be dreadful to read of the sudden death of Quiller-Couch from
apoplectic pride or to hear that Hilaire Belloc or Max Beerbohm had
burst with exultation in his bath."

"It's a pity you can't be funny in print," said Maurice severely. "You'd
really be some use on the paper then."

"But what we've rea