Ba - abe
and the Babe’s face looked out vindictively.
“If you call me like that I sha’n’t answer,” he said. “You’re not in Clare.”
So Jack went in, and found the Babe curled up again in a large chair, close to the fire, working. The month was February, which is equivalent, at Cambridge, to saying that it was raining—cold, sleety, impossible rain. As the exact day of the month was the sixteenth, it followed as a corollary that it had been raining for at least sixteen days, and, as it was leap year, it would continue to rain thirteen more.
“Well?” said the Babe unencouragingly. He had gone to bed early the night before, and the consequent length of the morning made him rather cross.
“Oh nothing. It’s raining, you know. The Sportsman says that Jupiter Pluvius is in the ascendant still.”
“He sends the snow in summer,
He sends the frost in May
To nip the apple-blossoms,
And spoil our games of play,”
quoted the Babe.
“Just so, and he doesn’t neglect to send the rain in February. I’ve just come back from King’s. Reggie’s in a bad temper, almost as bad as you.”
“Why?”