From far within him he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and through them came a stern tap-tap-tap , like hammering in the night when one cannot sleep. “Have you been good form today?” was their eternal question.

“Fame, fame, that glittering bauble, it is mine,” he cried.

“Is it quite good form to be distinguished at anything?” the tap-tap from his school replied.

“I am the only man whom Barbecue feared,” he urged; “and Flint himself feared Barbecue.”

“Barbecue, Flint⁠—what house?” came the cutting retort.

Most disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad form to think about good form?