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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
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