Chapter Twenty.
A Crisis.
The eventful day, which at the beginning of the term had seemed an age away, slowly but surely drew near.
This was Saturday. On Monday the examination would be over, and in a week the competitors would know their fates!
Some of my readers may know the queer sensation one sometimes gets at the approach of a long-looked-for and hardly-worked-for examination. For a week or so you have quietly been counting up what you do know. Now there breaks upon you an awful picture of what you do not know, and with it the absolute conviction that what you do not know is exactly what you ought to know, and what you do know is no use at all. It is too late to do anything. You cannot get up in a day what it would take you a fortnight to go through. And it is not much good, now you are sure it is useless, to go over again what you have done. You begin to feel a sort of despair, which becomes, as the hours close in, positively reckless. What do you care if you do miss? What’s the use of bothering any more about it? It cannot be helped; why make yourself miserable? Only, you would give worlds to have the thing all over. Such at least were the sensations which stirred in the breasts of Oliver Greenfield and Horace Wraysford as they sat somewhat dejectedly over their books in Oliver’s study that Saturday afternoon.
They had both worked hard since the holidays, generally together, neither concealing from the other what he had read or what he intended to read. Very bad rivals were these two, for though each was intent on winning the scholarship, each felt he would not break his heart if the other beat him, and that, as every one knows, is a most unheard-of piece of toleration. Now, however, each felt he had had enough of it. Oliver in particular was very despondent. He slammed up his books suddenly, and said, “I give it up; it’s not a bit of use going on!”
Wraysford pushed back his chair slowly, and said, not very cheeringly, “Upon my word I think you’re right, Noll.”
“I’ve a good mind,” said Oliver, looking very morose, “to scratch, and leave you and Loman to fight it out.”
“Don’t be a jackass, Noll,” replied Wraysford, half laughing. “That would be a sensible thing to do!”
“All very well for you to laugh,” said Oliver, his brow clouding. “You know you are well up and are going to win.”