So he and I were friends--"Jack" and
"Roddy" to one another--all the way up. We went through the school
together and went up to Cambridge together.
He was a whale at Chemistry (otherwise Stinks), and took a Tancred
Scholarship at Caius. I had beaten the examiner in Little-go at
second shot, and went up in the same term, to Trinity; where I played
what is called the flannelled fool at cricket--an old-fashioned game
which I will describe to you one of these days--
"_Cricket? But I thought you rowed, sir?" put in Yarrell Smith.
"Yes, surely--_"
"_Hush! tread softly," Barham interrupted. "Our Major won't mind
your not knowing he was a double Blue--don't stare at him like that;
it's rude. But he will not like it forgotten that he once knocked up
a century for England v Australia. . . . You'll forgive our young
friend, sir; he left school early, when the war broke out_."
_Otway looked across at Yarrell-Smith with a twinkle. "I took up
rowing in my second year," he explained modestly, "to enlarge my
mind. And this story, my good Sammy, is not about me--though I come
into it incidentally because by a pure fluke I happened to set it
going.
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