Statistics, upon which his master and friends, after exchanging opinions in argument, always fell back, frightened him.  As long as they had no opponents of their own kind, they swept the field, they were intelligible, as the word ‘principle’ had become.  But the appearance of one body of Statistics invariably brought up another; and the strokes and counterstrokes were like a play of quarter-staff on the sconce, to knock all comprehension out of Skepsey.  Otherwise he would not unwillingly have inquired to-morrow into the Statistics of the controversy between the waters of the wells and of the casks, prepared to walk over to the victorious, however objectionable that proceeding.  He hoped to question his master some day except that his master would very naturally have a tendency to sum-up in favour of wine—­good wine, in moderation; just as Miss Graves for the cup of tea—­not so thoughtfully stipulating that it should be good and not too copious.  Statistics are according to their conjurors; they are not independent bodies, with native colours; they needs must be painted by the different hands they pass through, and they may be multiplied; a nought or so counts for nothing with the teller.  Skepsey saw that.  Yet they can overcome:  even as fictitious battalions, they can overcome.  He shrank from the results of a ciphering match having him for object, and was ashamed of feeling to Statistics as women to giants; nevertheless he acknowledged that the badge was upon him, if Miss Graves should beat her master in her array of figures, to insist on his wearing it, as she would, she certainly would.  And against his internal conviction perhaps; with the knowledge that the figures were an unfortified display, and his oath of bondage an unmanly servility, the silliest of ceremonies!  He was shockingly feminine to Statistics.

Mr. Durance despised them:  he called them, arguing against Mr. Radnor, ‘those emotional things,’ not comprehensibly to Skepsey.  But Mr. Durance, a very clever gentleman, could not be right in everything.  He made strange remarks upon his country.  Dr. Yatt attributed them to the state of ’his digestion.

And Mr. Fenellan had said of Mr. Durance that, as ’a barrister wanting briefs, the speech in him had been bottled too long and was an overripe wine dripping sour drops through the rotten cork.’  Mr. Fenellan said it laughing, he meant no harm.  Skepsey was sure he had the words.  He heard no more than other people hear; he remembered whole sentences, and many:  on one of his runs, this active little machine, quickened by motion to fire, revived the audible of years back; whatever suited his turn of mind at the moment rushed to the rapid wheels within him.  His master’s business and friends, his country’s welfare and advancement, these, with records, items, anticipations, of the manlier sports to decorate, were his current themes; all being chopped and tossed and mixed in salad accordance by his fervour of velocity.  And if you would like