Meanwhile, Harry Moncrief had no sooner descended the stairs leading from the dormitories than he came sharply into contact with Plunger, who was hurrying along the corridor as though he were rushing full speed up a cricket pitch to prevent himself from being run out.
"Hallo, Harry, just the fellow I was looking for!" he exclaimed.
"Are you, Freddy? Then I wish you'd look for me with your eyes instead of your elbows," answered Harry, rubbing his ribs, which were aching from the blow they had just received from the boniest part of Plunger's elbows. "What is it?"
"You know that twaddle in the Gargoyle Record about the poet being stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger'?"
"Yes," laughed Harry, as he recalled Plunger's confusion when the paragraph was read aloud in the common room.
"What are you grinning at? You don't mean to say you saw anything funny in it?"
"Oh, no; but you're bound to laugh when the other fellows laugh, you know. It's like the measles—catching. I'm all right now. Go on. You were saying——"
"I believe that paragraph was sent in to the editor—Dick Jessel, you know—by Baldry."
"Oh! What makes you think that?"
"He's been worrying about rhymes ever since that paragraph was read out—that's why. You see, he sent in the paragraph so that he might have another shot at me with the answer. Baldry's a deep 'un."