Gerald looked at his gold watch. “A quarter to twelve.”

“Goddy!” said Maurice, “I’ve got to see the Tutor at twelve.”

“And I’ve got a lecture,” said Farncombe, “unless I cut.”

“You’re going to give me that essay to copy, aren’t you, lovey?” asked Maurice anxiously.

“It’s in my digs, if you want it,” said Farncombe briefly.

“Thanks most frightfully.”

They rose slowly, yawning.

“What does Jimmy want to see you about?” asked Hughes.

“About Saturday.” Maurice made a face.

“How much do you think he knows?”

“That’s the point. I don’t know.”

“That girl may have said something.”

“Not she. She’d lose her job.”

“It must have been the old bitch, then.”

“She didn’t see us in the hen-house.”

“No, but she saw the hen-house after we’d been in it.”

“You were a madman,” said Farncombe.

Maurice giggled. “They looked so damn funny with their little heads tied up.”

“I don’t suppose she thought so.”

“Well, it didn’t do them any harm.”

“It did harm to the sitting-room, though.”

“She’s got to prove it,” said Gerald.

“I’m afraid Jimmy won’t want much proving,” said Hughes. “He’ll accept circumstantial evidence.”

“There’s no justice in this College,” said Maurice.

“You thank your God there isn’t, my boy. If there was justice, you’d have been sent down your first term.”

Maurice giggled, flattered. Going across to the cupboard, he hooked his square and gown off the peg. His square had had all its stuffing long since removed. It hung floppy like a cap.

“Jimmy eats out of my hand,” Maurice boasted. “Good-bye, you chaps. Don’t go away. I’ll be back soon.”

All the same, he felt a little uncomfortable as he hurried downstairs and out into Silver Street—not forgetting to put his head into his landlady’s sitting - room and say: “Good morning, Mrs. Brown. How’s the kitten?”—for it was most important to keep on the right side of Mrs. Brown, who’d even once or twice risked saying nothing about the times they came home from London in the early hours, without late leave. He wondered, hurrying towards his College, how much Jimmy really did know—and how much he’d believe. His thoughts ran on earlier rows. His first—his first term—when he’d let off that aerial torpedo under a Robert’s feet on Guy Fawkes night. The Robert had been quite badly burnt and there’d been a terrific fuss. Maurice had had to go round and interview an important official, who’d ended by asking him to lunch. Then there was the smashup last year on the Newmarket Road, when Stewart-Baines had been killed and they’d had to appear at the inquest. That was awful. Maurice had expected anything up to a manslaughter charge, but they’d got through it somehow, and only poor old George, who’d really had nothing to do with it, had been sent down. And then there were the minor rows. The row over the disturbance they’d made by bringing a boat with an outboard motor up the Backs and swamping punts. The row over the fire in Hughes’ room after a birthday party. Endless rows about bills. Cambridge tradesmen were much too ready to get into touch with the College Tutor.