When one has been working hard with a single end in view, the arrivaland departure of the supreme moment is apt to leave a feeling ofemptiness, as if life had been drained of all its interest, and leftnothing sufficiently exciting to make it worth doing. Horatius, as hefollowed his plough on a warm day over the corn land which hisgratified country bestowed on him for his masterly handling of thetraffic on the bridge, must sometimes have felt it was a little tame.

　　The feeling is far more acute when one has been unexpectedly baulked inone's desire for action. Sheen, for the first few days after hereceived Drummond's brief note, felt that it was useless for him to tryto do anything. The Fates were against him. In stories, as Mr Ansteyhas pointed out, the hero is never long without his chance ofretrieving his reputation. A mad bull comes into the school grounds,and he alone (the hero, not the bull) is calm. Or there is a fire, andwhose is that pale and gesticulating form at the upper window? Thebully's, of course. And who is that climbing nimbly up the Virginiacreeper? Why, the hero. Who else? Three hearty cheers for the pluckyhero.

　　But in real life opportunities of distinguishing oneself are lessfrequent.

　　Sheen continued his visits to the "Blue Boar", but more because heshrank from telling Joe Bevan that all his trouble had been fornothing, than because he had any definite object in view. It was bitterto listen to the eulogies of the pugilist, when all the while he knewthat, as far as any immediate results were concerned, it did not reallymatter whether he boxed well or feebly. Some day, perhaps, as Mr Bevanwas fond of pointing out when he approached the subject ofdisadvantages of boxing, he might meet a hooligan when he was crossinga field with his sister; but he found that but small consolation. Hewas in the position of one who wants a small sum of ready money, and istold that, in a few years, he may come into a fortune. By the time hegot a chance of proving himself a man with his hands, he would be anOld Wrykinian. He was leaving at the end of the summer term.

　　Jack Bruce was sympathetic, and talked more freely than was his wont.

　　"I can't understand it," he said. "Drummond always seemed a good sort.

　　I should have thought he would have sent you in for the house like ashot. Are you sure you put it plainly in your letter? What did yousay?"Sheen repeated the main points of his letter.

　　"Did you tell him who had been teaching you?""No. I just said I'd been boxing lately.""Pity," said Jack Bruce. "If you'd mentioned that it was Joe who'd beentraining you, he would probably have been much more for it. You see, hecouldn't know whether you were any good or not from your letter. But ifyou'd told him that Joe Bevan and Hunt both thought you good, he'd haveseen there was something in it.""It never occurred to me. Like a fool, I was counting on the thing somuch that it didn't strike me there would be any real difficulty ingetting him to see my point. Especially when he got mumps and couldn'tgo in himself. Well, it can't be helped now."And the conversation turned to the prospects of Jack Bruce's father inthe forthcoming election, the polling for which had just begun.