and that the people who possessed it were the natural enemies of people who had to live by their brains.  But John had very soon discovered that though Cornelius Angleside possessed the three qualifications for perdition, in the shape of birth, wealth and ignorance, against which his poor father railed unceasingly, he succeeded nevertheless in making himself very good company.  Angleside was not overbearing, he was not purse-proud and he was not a bully.  On the contrary he was unobtrusive and sufficiently simple in manner, and he certainly never mentioned the subject of his family or fortune; John rather pitied him, on the whole, until he began to discover that Angleside looked up to him on account of his mental superiority, and then John, being very human, began to like him.

The life at the vicarage of Billingsfield, Essex, was not remarkable for anything but its extreme regularity.  Prayers, breakfast, work, lunch, a walk, work, dinner, work, prayers, bed.  The programme never varied, save as the seasons introduced some change in the hours of the establishment.  The vicar, who was fond of a little gardening and amused himself with a variety of experiments in the laying of asparagus beds, found occasional excitement in the pursuit of a stray cat which had managed to climb his wire netting and get at the heads of his favourite vegetable, in which thrilling chase he was usually aided by an old brown retriever answering, when he answered at all, to the name of Carlo, and by the Honourable Cornelius, whose skill in throwing stones was as phenomenal as his ignorance of Latin quantities.  The play was invariably opened by old Reynolds, the ancient and bow-legged gardener, groom and man of all work at the vicarage.

“Please sir, there’s Simon Gunn’s cat in the sparrergrass.”  The information was accompanied by a sort of chuckle of evil satisfaction which at once roused the sleeping passions of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose.

“Dear me, Reynolds, then why don’t you turn her out?” and without waiting for an answer, the excellent vicar would spring from his seat and rush down the lawn in the direction of the beds, closely followed by the Honourable Cornelius, who picked up stones from the gravel path as he ran, and whose long legs made short work of the iron fence at the bottom of the garden.  Meanwhile the aged Reynolds let Carlo loose from the yard and the hunt was prosecuted with great boldness and ingenuity.  The vicar’s object was to get the cat out of the asparagus bed as soon as possible without hurting her, for he was a humane man and would not have hurt a fly.  Cornelius, on the other hand, desired the game to last as long as possible, and endeavoured to prevent the cat’s escape by always hitting the wire netting at the precise spot where she was trying to get over it.  In this way he would often succeed in getting as much as half an hour’s respite from Horace.  At last the vicar, panting with his exertions and bathed in perspiration, would protest against the form of assault.