leafed rapidly through an anthology. "Carl, who wrote 'Kubla Khan'?"

Carl puffed his pipe meditatively. "I'm going to fox you, Pudge," he
said, frankly triumphant; "I know. Coleridge wrote it. It seems to be
about a Jew who built a swell joint for a wild woman or something like
that. I can't make much out of the damn thing."

"That's enough. Smack for Carl," said Pudge approvingly. "Smack" meant
that the answer was satisfactory. "Freddy, who wrote 'La Belle Dame sans
Merci'?"

Freddy twisted in his chair, thumped his head with his knuckles, and
finally announced with a groan of despair, "No soap."

"Hugh?"

"No soap."

"Larry?"

"Well," drawled Larry, "I think Jawn Keats wrote it. It's one of those
bedtime stories with a kick. A knight gets picked up by a jane. He puts
her on his prancing steed and beats it for the tall timber. Keats isn't
very plain about what happened there, but I suspect the worst. Anyhow,
the knight woke up the next morning with an awful rotten taste in his
mouth."

"Smack for Larry. Your turn, Carl. Who wrote 'The West Wind'?"

"You can't get me on that boy Masefield, Pudge. I know all his stuff.
There isn't any story; it's just about the west wind, but it's a goddamn
good poem. It's the cat's pajamas."

"You said it, Carl," Hugh chimed in, "but I like 'Sea Fever' better.

"I must go down to the seas again,
To the lonely sea and the sky....

Gosh! that's hot stuff. 'August, 1914''s a peach, too."

"Yeah," agreed Larry languidly; "I got a great kick when the prof read
that in class. Masefield's all right. I wish we had more of his stuff
and less of Milton. Lord Almighty, how I hate Milton! What th' hell do
they have to give us that tripe for?"

"Oh, let's get going," Freddy pleaded, running a nervous hand through
his mouse-colored hair. "Shoot a question, Pudge."

"All right, Freddy." Pudge tried to smile wickedly but succeeded only in
looking like a beaming cherub. "Tell us who wrote the 'Ode on
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.'
Cripes! what a title!"

Freddy groaned. "I know that Wadsworth wrote it, but that is all that I
do know about it."

"Wordsworth, Freddy," Carl corrected him. "Wordsworth. Henry W.
Wordsworth."

"Gee, Carl, thanks. I thought it was William."

There was a burst of laughter, and then Pudge explained. "It is William,
Freddy. Don't let Peters razz you. Just for that, Carl, you tell w