“Well, W.G., what do you think of it?” he asked, when he had finished.
W.G. sucked at his pipe and smiled good-humouredly.
“Better luck next time, old chap,” he said.
CHAPTER VI
THE DRESSER
I
In the following June the second professional examination was held. On a stifling morning, when the blue brick pavements of North Bromwich reflected a torrid heat, and a warm wind, blowing like a sirocco from the black desert outside, swept the streets with clouds of dust, Edwin, Maskew, and W.G. waited in the cloakroom outside the Dean’s office to see the results of the examination posted. Maskew was the only one of the three who showed no signs of nervousness; for W.G. could never overcome the difficulty of expressing his thoughts on paper, and Edwin had passed ten minutes of purgatory with an outside examiner in the anatomy viva. He knew, on the other hand, that his Physiology had been extraordinarily good, and put his faith in the general impression of intelligence that he hoped he had created.
The porter came out with the lists, and W.G., striding to meet his fate like some Homeric hero, snatched the paper from his hands. He went very white as he read it.
“Good God—” he said. “Well, I’m damned—”
“Rotten luck if you’re down, W.G.,” said Maskew sympathetically.