sufficiently self-centred to be indifferent to
them. He had come through, with luck perhaps, but still he had come
through. That was all that mattered. He had not read Matthew Arnold's
_Rugby Chapel_. If he had, he might have recognised himself in the
pilgrim who had saved only himself, while the world was full of others,
like the Chief, who were "bringing their sheep in their hand." But
probably even if he had read the poem at that time, he would have been
too happy, too self-contented, too successful to realise its poignant
truth. And it would not have been surprising. Youth is always intolerant
and self-centred. It is only when we grow old, and see so "little done
of all we so gaily set out to do," that we suddenly appreciate that,
even if we have ourselves failed, yet if we can by our experience help
someone else to succeed, our life will not be utterly vain. Altruism is
the philosophy of middle age.

On a few, but very few, occasions Gordon was temporarily roused out of
his secure atmosphere. One of these was on the last day of term, when a
letter appeared in _The Fernhurst School Magazine_ suggesting that the
Three Cock should be changed into a Two Cock, since the School House had
for the last few years proved itself so incapable of holding out against
the strong outhouse combination of three houses against one. Much of
what the writer said was true. The House numbered only about seventy,
while each outhouse contained some forty boys, with perhaps six day boys
attached to each. The House did not take in day boys, so that the House
was always playing against a selection from double its number. A Two
Cock would be far fairer. Nevertheless the House was furious.

"Confounded old ass," said Mansell. "I believe Claremont wrote it. Let
him wait till next year and he will see his beastly blue shirts rolled
in the mud."

"But it is such infernal swank," said Gordon. "We smashed them in the
Thirds; to all intents and purposes we routed them in the Two Cock; the
only thing the outhouses won was the Three Cock; and they are so bucked
about that that they want to clinch a victory, get up and shout: 'Look
at us, what devils of fine fellows we are! You can't touch us. Better
take charity.' Unutterable conceit! Why, we won four times running about
seven years ago. I have a good mind to go to Claremont and give it him
straight. Betteridge, you absurd ass, why did you print this thing?"

"Well, you see, there were a few rather