The New Machiavelli. H. G. Wells

have?” said Cossington.

      “Something like MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE—or LONGMANS'; LONGMANS' is better because it has a whole page, not columns. It makes no end of difference to one's effects.”

      “What effects?” asked Shoesmith abruptly.

      “Oh! a pause or a white line or anything. You've got to write closer for a double column. It's nuggetty. You can't get a swing on your prose.” I had discussed this thoroughly with Britten.

      “If the fellows are going to write—” began Britten.

      “We ought to keep off fine writing,” said Shoesmith. “It's cheek. I vote we don't have any.”

      “We sha'n't get any,” said Cossington, and then as an olive branch to me, “unless Remington does a bit. Or Britten. But it's no good making too much space for it.”

      “We ought to be very careful about the writing,” said Shoesmith. “We don't want to give ourselves away.”

      “I vote we ask old Topham to see us through,” said Naylor.

      Britten groaned aloud and every one regarded him. “Greek epigrams on the fellows' names,” he said. “Small beer in ancient bottles. Let's get a stuffed broody hen to SIT on the magazine.”

      “We might do worse than a Greek epigram,” said Cossington. “One in each number. It—it impresses parents and keeps up our classical tradition. And the masters CAN help. We don't want to antagonise them. Of course—we've got to departmentalise. Writing is only one section of the thing. The ARVONIAN has to stand for the school. There's questions of space and questions of expense. We can't turn out a great chunk of printed prose like—like wet cold toast and call it a magazine.”

      Britten writhed, appreciating the image.

      “There's to be a section of sports. YOU must do that.”

      “I'm not going to do any fine writing,” said Shoesmith.