Baboo, being asked the same question, at once explains the whole matter, this time without the aid of the salt-cellars and cutlery.
A few days later go to look at result of examination. Result, for me—a Plough!
Walking away dejectedly—("homeward the Plough-man wends his legal way"—as Gray sympathetically put it)—meet African law-student, who grins insanely. He doesn't sympathise in my defeat. Shows his fine set of ivories and says:—
"Me failed too. Me go back Gambia. You come back with me!"
Tell him I'm not "called" yet: certainly not called to Gambia.
"Then come to Alhambra!" he suggests, as a sort of alternative to a visit to the tropics.
African student evidently still a masher. Decline his invitation with thanks. Wouldn't be seen with him at a theatre for worlds! Depressed. Don't even look in at Gaiety Bar. No Gaiety for me—and no "Bar" either, it seems.
