The work went steadily on from morning to afternoon. More than one anxious face darted now and then nervous glances up at the clock, as the hour of closing approached.
Loman was one of them. He was evidently in difficulties, and the Fifth Form fellows, who looked round occasionally from their English Literature papers, were elated to see their own men writing steadily and hard, while the Sixth man looked all aground. There was one boy, however, who had no time for such observations. That was Simon. He had got hold of a question which was after his own heart, and demanded every second of his attention—“Describe, in not more than twelve lines of blank verse, the natural beauties of the River Shar.” Here was a chance for the Dominican poet!
“The Shar is a very beautiful stream,
Of the Ouse a tributary;
Up at Gusset Weir it’s prettiest, I ween,
Because there the birds sing so merry.”
These four lines the poet styled, “Canto One.” Cantos 2, 3, and 4 were much of the same excellence, and altogether the effusion was in one of Simon’s happiest moods. Alas! as another poet said, “Art is long, time is fleeting.” The clock pointed to three long before the bard had penned his fifth canto; and sadly and regretfully he and his fellow-candidates gathered together and handed in their papers, for better or worse.
Among the last to finish up was Oliver, who had been working hammer and tongs during the whole examination.
“How did you get on?” said Wraysford, as they walked back to the Fifth.
“Middling, not so bad as I feared; how did you?”
“Not very grand, I’m afraid; but better than I expected,” said Wraysford. “But I say, did you see how gravelled Loman seemed? I fancy he didn’t do very much.”
“So I thought; but I hadn’t time to watch him much.”