"Jack Lord, sir!"
"No, my lad! He lives nearer Angel Street than that! Oh, of course, you live in Longton now! How's your sister?"
"You ... you don't mean me, sir?"
"But I do! Come into my room, I've a poet I think you'll like. Henley! You've not met Henley?
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll!
Won't your mother be glad, eh? I'm pleased, Philip, very! You're making good again! Let me see, we were quoting Henley. Of course, you remember:
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
No? Here's the book then! ..."
Philip ran to Angel Street breathlessly and burst into the kitchen. Reb Monash had already come down and was sipping his glass of lemon-tea. But Philip had no eyes for Reb Monash.
"Mother!" he shouted, "I've won! I've won the Chaucer! A five-pound prize! Isn't it grand! I'll be able to buy you a blouse for yom tov! And hordes of eggs! Isn't it grand!"