puts her on his prancing steed and beats it for the tall timber. Keats is n’t very plain about what happened there, but I suspect the worst. Anyhow, the knight woke up the next morning with an awful rotten taste in his mouth.”
“Smack for Larry. Your turn, Carl. Who wrote The West Wind’?”
“You can’t get me on that boy Masefield, Pudge. I know all his stuff. There isn’t any story; it’s just about the west wind, but it’s a goddamn good poem. It’s the cat’s pajamas.”
“You said it, Carl,” Hugh chimed in, “but I like ‘Sea Fever’ better.
“I must go down to the seas again,
To the lonely sea and the sky. ...
Gosh! that’s hot stuff. August, 1914’’s a peach,
too.”
“Yeah,” agreed Larry languidly; “I got a great kick when the prof read that in class. Masefield’s all right. I wish we had more of his stuff and less of Milton. Lord Almighty, how I hate Milton! What th’ hell do they have to give us that tripe for?”
“Oh, let’s get going,” Freddy pleaded, running a nervous hand through his mouse-colored hair. “Shoot a question, Pudge.”
“All right, Freddy.” Pudge tried to smile wickedly but succeeded only in looking like a beam-
