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play cricket myself； but I could always stop at ten or twenty。 There
have been times when I have stopped at even less。
It is the same with everything he puts his hand to。 Either he does
not care for boating at all； or； as a matter of course； he pulls
stroke in the University Boat…race； and then takes the train on to
Henley and wins the Diamond Sculls so easily that it hardly seems
worth while for the other fellow to have started。 Were I living in
Novel…land； and had I entered for the Diamond Sculls； I should put it
to my opponent before the word was given to us to go。
〃One minute！〃 I should have called out to him。 〃Are you the hero of
this novel； or； like myself； only one of the minor characters？
Because； if you are the hero you go on； don't you wait for me。 I
shall just pull as far as the boathouse and get myself a cup of tea。〃
＇Because it always seems to be his Day。＇
There is no sense of happy medium about the hero of the popular
novel。 He cannot get astride a horse without its going off and
winning a steeplechase against the favourite。 The crowd in Novel…
land appears to have no power of observation。 It worries itself
about the odds； discusses records； reads the nonsense published by
the sporting papers。 Were I to find myself on a racecourse in Novel…
land I should not trouble about the unessential； I should go up to
the bookie who looked as if he had the most money； and should say to
him：
〃Don't shout so loud； you are making yourself hoarse。 Just listen to
me。 Who's the hero of this novel？ Oh； that's he； is it？ The heavy…
looking man on the little brown horse that keeps coughing and is
suffering apparently from bone spavin？ Well； what are the odds
against his winning by ten lengths？ A thousand to one！ Very well！
Have you got a bag？Good。 Here's twenty…seven pounds in gold and
eighteen shillings in silver。 Coat and waistcoat； say another ten
shillings。 Shirt and trousersit's all right； I've got my pyjamas
on underneathsay seven and six。 Bootswe won't quarrelmake it
five bob。 That's twenty…nine pounds and sixpence； isn't it？ In
addition here's a mortgage on the family estate； which I've had made
out in blank； an I O U for fourteen pounds which has been owing to me
now for some time； and this bundle of securities which； strictly
speaking； belong to my Aunt Jane。 You keep that little lot till
after the race； and we will call it in round figures； five hundred
pounds。〃
That single afternoon would thus bring me in five hundred thousand
poundsprovided the bookie did not blow his brains out。
Backers in Novel…land do not seem to me to know their way about。 If
the hero of the popular novel swims at all； it is not like an
ordinary human being that he does it。 You never meet him in a
swimming…bath； he never pays ninepence； like the rest of us； for a
machine。 He goes out at uncanny hours； generally accompanied by a
lady friend； with whom the while swimming he talks poetry and cracks
jokes。 Some of us； when we try to talk in the sea； fill ourselves up
with salt water。 This chap lies on his back and carols； and the wild
waves； seeing him； go round the other way。 At billiards he can give
the average sharper forty in a hundred。 He does not really want to
play； he does it to teach these bad men a lesson。 He has not handled
a cue for years。 He picked up the game when a young man in
Australia； and it seems to have lingered with him。
He does not have to get up early and worry dumb…bells in his
nightshirt； he just lies on a sofa in an elegant attitude and muscle
comes to him。 If his horse declines to jump a hedge； he slips down
off the animal's back and throws the poor thing over； it saves
argument。 If he gets cross and puts his shoulder to the massive
oaken door； we know there is going to be work next morning for the
carpenter。 Maybe he is a party belonging to the Middle Ages。 Then
when he reluctantly challenges the crack fencer of Europe to a duel；
our instinct is to call out and warn his opponent。
〃You silly fool；〃 one feels one wants to say； 〃why； it is the hero of
the novel！ You take a friend's advice while you are still alive； and
get out of it anywayanyhow。 Apologizehire a horse and cart； do
something。 You're not going to fight a duel； you're going to commit
suicide。〃
If the hero is a modern young man； and has not got a father； or has
only something not worth calling a father； then he comes across a
libraryanybody's library does for him。 He passes Sir Walter Scott
and the 〃Arabian Nights；〃 and makes a bee…line for Plato； it seems to
be an instinct with him。 By help of a dictionary he worries it out
in the original Greek。 This gives him a passion for Greek。
When he has romped through the Greek classics he plays about among
the Latins。 He spends most of his spare time in that library； and
forgets to go to tea。
＇Because he always 〃gets there；〃 without any trouble。＇
That is the sort of boy he is。 How I used to hate him！ If he has a
proper sort of father； then he goes to college。 He does no work：
there is no need for him to work： everything seems to come to him。
That was another grievance of mine against him。 I always had to work
a good deal； and very little came of it。 He fools around doing
things that other men would be sent down for； but in his case the
professors love him for it all the more。 He is the sort of man who
can't do wrong。 A fortnight before the examination he ties a wet
towel round his head。 That is all we hear about it。 It seems to be
the towel that does it。 Maybe； if the towel is not quite up to its
work； he will help things on by drinking gallons of strong tea。 The
tea and the towel combined are irresistible： the result is always
the senior wranglership。
I used to believe in that wet towel and that strong tea。 Lord！ the
things I used to believe when I was young。 They would make an
Encyclopaedia of Useless Knowledge。 I wonder if the author of the
popular novel has ever tried working with a wet towel round his or
her head： I have。 It is difficult enough to move a yard； balancing
a dry towel。 A heathen Turk may have it in his blood to do so： the
ordinary Christian has not got the trick of it。 To carry about a wet
towel twisted round one's head needs a trained acrobat。 Every few
minutes the wretched thing works loose。 In darkness and in misery；
you struggle to get your head out of a clammy towel that clings to
you almost with passion。 Brain power is wasted in inventing names
for that towelnames expressive of your feelings with regard to it。
Further time is taken up before the glass； fixing the thing afresh。
You return to your books in the wrong temper； the water trickles down
your nose； runs in rivulets down your back。 Until you have finally
flung the towel out of the window and rubbed yourself dry； work is
impossible。 The strong tea always gave me indigestion； and made me
sleepy。 Until I had got over the effects of the tea； attempts at
study were useless。
＇Because he's so damned clever。＇
But the thing that still irritates me mo