Out at four o’clock, they strolled down Oriel Street, past Corpus, by Merton Church, and into Christ-Church Broad Walk; and meeting three friends, also up for matriculation at some other college, took a boat from Salter’s and rowed to Iffley, Frank steering.
Luckily the river was not crowded, as in full term, or the erratic course which Frank steered would have brought down upon him the shrill abuse of some eight-oar’s coxswain, even if not a quiet spill into the water.
Thursday passed much in the same way: Frank, on the whole, satisfied with his work; Monkton, his friend, somewhat desponding. The hours after work would have been dull had there not been so much to see. The friends mooned about till half-past six, and then had meat-tea at Monkton’s lodgings in Ship Street; and with “Verdant Green” and the “Mysteries of the Isis” beguiled the evening till they turned into bed. What a relief it was when Friday morning came, and with it the last paper! At two that afternoon they were met in the Lodge by the Porter, who had an important-looking paper in his hands.
“Please to wait a moment, gentlemen,” he said, as all the candidates were hurrying off across the quadrangle to the hall; “these are the gentlemen that are to go for vivâ voce.” And he proceeded to read out six names, among which Frank and Monkton, to their great delight, heard their own. They hardly thought of the disconsolate nine who, hearing the last name on the list, hopelessly oozed one by one out at the Lodge-gates.
Reaching the hall, the chosen six found the Master and six of the Fellows, all attired in cap, gown, and dignity, seated at the High table. They were told to sit down at one side of the hall, and then, one by one, were summoned to that awful table and examined. Monkton’s ordeal came first, and it was a trying one. He was first questioned (very sharply, as it seemed to Frank) on some of his papers, and then given some written questions and sent to a side table. Frank was not aware, then, that this process—familiarly known as “second paper”—meant that Monkton’s success hung by a thread on the result of his work this afternoon. His own turn came next. The Fellow who examined him saw he was nervous, and, as usual with almost every examiner, spoke pleasantly and reassuringly to him.
“Take your Greek Testament, Mr. Ross,” he said, “and turn to the fifth chapter of St. Matthew, and translate the first six verses.”
Frank turned to the passage indicated. He knew it at a glance, and that reassured him; and when he was next told to open a “Cicero” that was lying on the table he felt comparatively at his ease. He got through about six lines of the Second Philippic, and was then asked a few disconnected questions.
“Do you know what circumstances led to the delivery of this speech?”
He did know, but words failed him, and he bungled.
“Never mind,” answered the examiner. “Who was Hannibal? and what battles did he fight?”