“Lao Ting,” said this person, when they had exchanged formalities, “in spite of the flattering attentions of the shallow”—­he here threw upon the floor a garland which he had conveyed from off Lao Ting’s door—­“it is exceedingly unlikely that at the first attempt your name will be among those of the chosen, and the possibility of it heading the list may be dismissed as vapid.”

“Your experience is deep and wide,” replied Lao Ting, the circumstance that Sheng-yin had already tried and failed three and thirty times adding an edge to the words; “yet if it is written it is written.”

“Doubtless,” retorted Sheng-yin no less capably; “but it will never be set to music.  Now, until your inconsiderate activities prevailed, this person was confidently greeted as the one who would be first.”

“The names of Wang-san and Yin Ho were not unknown to the expectant,” suggested Lao Ting mildly.

“The mind of Wang-san is only comparable with a wastepaper basket,” exclaimed the visitor harshly; “and Yin Ho is in reality as dull as split ebony.  But in your case, unfortunately, there is nothing to go on, and, unlikely though it be, it is just possible that this person’s well-arranged ambitions may thereby be brought to a barren end.  For that reason he is here to discuss this matter as between virtuous friends.”

“Let your auspicious mouth be widely opened,” replied Lao Ting guardedly.  “My ears will not refrain.”

“Is there not, perchance, some venerable relative in a distant part of the province whose failing eyes crave, at this juncture, to rest upon your wholesome features before he passes Upwards?”

“Assuredly some such inopportune person might be forthcoming,” admitted Lao Ting.  “Yet the cost of so formidable a journey would be far beyond this necessitous one’s means.”

“In so charitable a cause affluent friends would not be lacking.  Depart on the third day and remain until the ninth and twenty taels of silver will glide imperceptibly into your awaiting sleeve.”

“The prospect of not taking the foremost place in the competition—­added to the pangs of those who have hazarded their store upon the unworthy name of Lao—­is an ignoble one,” replied the student, after a moment’s thought.  “The journey will be a costly task at this season of the rains; it cannot possibly be accomplished for less than fifty taels.”

“It is well said, ’Do not look at robbers sharing out their spoil:  look at them being executed,’” urged Sheng-yin.  “Should you be so ill-destined as to compete, and, as would certainly be the case, be awarded a position of contempt, how unendurable would be your anguish when, amidst the execrations of the deluded mob, you remembered that thirty taels of the purest had slipped from your effete grasp.”

“Should the Bridge of the Camel Back be passable, five and forty might suffice,” mused Lao Tung to himself.

“Thirty-seven taels, five hundred cash, are the utmost that your obliging friends would hazard in the quest,” announced Sheng-yin definitely.  “On the day following that of the final competition the sum will be honourably—­”