"I think I did," answered Martin reflectively.

"Exactly. You liked the chaps, because, with all their intellectual
limitations, they're reliable. You know they won't play dirty tricks
behind your back. You liked your study and you liked cooking enormous
and hideously indigestible meals and gorging until all was blue. You
liked shutting the window on a cold night and collecting a crowd and
raising such a frowst that the air was solid and the windows steamed.
You liked smoking your secret cigarette and discussing who was going to
be the school wicket-keeper three years hence and who was the worst bat
in first-class cricket. Am I right?"

"Absolutely."

Mr Berrisford started a new cigar with satisfaction. "Good. Then the
system hasn't altered altogether. Oh yes, and you liked some of your
classics?"

"Most of them, when I could escape the notes and grammarian's drivel."

"The classics are worth sticking to. It's no good these scientists
talking about translations being as good. They aren't and there's an
end of it. Good translations have their uses, but they aren't the real
thing. We don't read Homer to find out what happened. So let's thank
God for Homer and philosophy and leave psychology and applied mechanics
to the Life Force."

Mr Berrisford had certainly a definite point of view, and he did not
fall between the two stools of acceptance and sweeping reconstruction
as Finney seemed to. So Martin was not only amused but influenced and
on his return to Elfrey for the summer term gave up worrying about the
pros and cons of Public School education. He determined to enjoy
himself, and he knew that in order to enjoy himself he must have an
interest. It couldn't be concerned with art, because in that case he
would have to keep it to himself. It must be a common interest, a part
of school life. Ultimately, he fixed upon the bowling of googlies.

His batting had always been respectable and had won him a place in his
house team for two summers, and now, as Rayner was likely to be engaged
in school matches, or practice games, Martin became house captain on
most afternoons. Ever since the day when, as a small boy being tried
in 'firsts,' he had shivered with terror in the field and dreaded more
than death itself the agony of the fumbled catch, he had always envied
house captains. Now was his chance: he could become a slow bowler. He
believed that most things in this world can be achieved by bluff a