Explore "The Babe, B. A" by E.F. Benson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Whist is slow, but baccarat bites, Baccarat bites, and we want to be bit; Late comes dawn on these winter nights, And you need no knowledge to play at it. HOTCH-POTCH VERSES.
In all his life for two years and a half at Cambridge, and he had associated with very many classes there, the Babe had never come across any man whom he would suspect of being capable of doing that which necessitated his going to see "the man" he knew on such an errand as this, and he concluded rightly that though such people no doubt occurred, they were not to be looked for, with any chance of finding them, at university towns. His errand was not a pleasant one, and it was far from being an easy one, and when he knocked at Feltham's door a few minutes afterwards, he could not have hazarded the vaguest guess as to what manner of exit he would make.