Two nights later Gordon came into his study to find Morcombe sitting with Foster, preparing some con.
"Hope you don't mind me bringing this lad in," said Foster, "I am in great difficulties with some con."
Gordon grunted, and proceeded to bury himself in The Pot of Basil.
"I say, Caruthers," broke in Foster. "You might help us with this Vergil? It's got us licked. Here you are: look, 'Fortunate Senex——'"
Gordon went through the familiar passage with comparative ease.
"There now, you see," said Foster, "there's some use in these Sixth Form slackers after all. By the way, what did you think of Claremont's sermon last night?"
Conversation flowed easily. Morcombe was quick, and, at times, amusing. Gordon unaccountably found himself trying to appear at his best.
"You know," he was saying, "I do get so sick of these masters who go about with the theory of 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world,' and in war-time, too! With all these men falling, and no advance being made from day to day."
"Yes," said Morcombe; "I agree with the 'much good, but much less good than ill' philosophy."
Gordon was surprised out of himself.