“Do you see much of Monkton now?” Crawford asked, as they were walking to Godstow by the upper river.
“Very little,” said Frank. “I can’t think what he does with himself.”
“Not much, I fancy. I see him loafing occasionally, and I believe that’s pretty nearly all he does. However, I’m glad you don’t see much of him.” And Crawford changed the subject. “What’s this I hear of you and the Undergraduates’ Journal? You don’t mean to say you’ve taken to write in it? I should have thought you had work enough to do.”
Frank got red and confused.
“Well, the fact is—I have written a few things; but it didn’t take much time.”
“Ah! that’s just where it is,” said Crawford. “If you do anything of that sort at all, it’s worth doing well—just as everything is, for the matter of that. You haven’t time to do it well, and you square the matter by doing it hurriedly. You’d far better stick to your Law reading.”
“I say, old fellow,” remonstrated Frank, “I didn’t come out for a lecture. You’re a regular old school-master. I only wrote three little poems, or ‘sets of verses’ as I suppose I ought to call ’em: that’s the extent of my writing.”
“Oh!” said Crawford, somewhat mollified. “Well, take my advice; get your degree first and write afterwards.”
“That’s all very well,” retorted Frank; “but I should like to know how you expect a fellow to be able to write without practice? Reading Law and writing answers to papers don’t help one.”