During the week spent at Eton, it was expected that the result of the Tripos would be declared; but the absence of an examiner put it off for a week longer. More fidget and more speculating. After my mishaps in Greek Prose and Latin Verse, I ought to have made up my mind to die decently, but then I was conscious of having sent up a rather neat bit of prose, and Iambics that were a little above my average—so said a friend to whom I showed the rough copy. Re-examination of the translation papers disclosed some glaring mistakes, but every one makes mistakes, except now and then a Shrewsbury man. The betting was against me, but there was some money on me even. The examiners were more taciturn than usual and let nothing be suspected beforehand. The only generally received rumor was that Frederick Peel (who had been working like three horses all the Long) was coming up wonderfully and going to be the successful outsider of the year; and this rested more on the firm conviction and positive assertions of his coach than on anything that had leaked out.

At last it was unofficially announced that the Tripos would be out on the morrow.