for the most part, he lived
merely to enjoy himself, and his pleasures were, on the whole,
innocuous. They very rarely went much beyond ragging Rudd.

"Do you think," said Gordon, the evening after his first confirmation
address, "that the masters really believe confirmation has any effect on
us? Because you know it doesn't."

"I don't think it matters very much what masters think," said Hunter;
"most of them here have got into a groove. They believe the things they
ought to believe; they are all copies of the same type. They've clean
forgotten what it was like at school. Hardly any of them really know
boys. They go on happily believing them 'perhaps a little excitable, but
on the whole, perfectly straight and honest.' Then a row comes. They are
horrified. They don't realise all of us are the same. They've made
themselves believe what they want to believe."

"Yes, and when they are told the truth, they won't believe it," said
Betteridge. "You know, I was reading an article in some paper the other
day, by an assistant master at Winchborough, called Ferrers. He was
cursing the whole system. I showed it to Claremont, just for a rag; told
him I thought it was rather good. The old fool looked at it for some
time, and then said: 'Well, Betteridge, don't form your style on this.
It is very perfervid stuff. Not always grammatical.' All the ass thinks
of is whether plurals agree with singulars; he does not care a damn
whether the material is good."

"That's it," said Gordon. "Masters try to make you imitate, and not
think for yourself. 'Mould your Latin verses on Vergil, your Greek prose
on Thucydides, your English on Matthew Arnold, but don't think for
yourself. Don't be original.' If anyone big began to think he'd see what
a farce it all is; and then where would all these fossils be? It's all
sham; look at the reports. Bradford gets told he's a good moral
influence. Mansell works hard and deserves his prize. It is hoped that
confirmation will be a help to me. Rot, it all is!"

"Oh, I'm not so certain confirmation is a farce," broke in Bradford. "If
you don't believe in it, you won't get to heaven."

"But who the hell wants to get there," said Mansell. "Sing hymns all day
long. I can imagine it. Fancy having Caruthers singing out of tune in
your ear for ever. It's bad enough in chapel once a day. But for
ever----!"

"My good lads, you don't know what heaven's like," whispered Bradford
confidentially. "Claremont was gas