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garments they’d sported as youngsters, and tried to convince themselves they were still Corinthians. That’s why he’d accepted Jack Cleaver’s challenge tonight. More fool he.
    His friends were as aware as he that things were changing. They were drifting apart as their interests diversified. And they simply did not have the time to keep up with each other. In an effort to stem the tide, they’d hit upon the idea of spending part of every July in Brighton. “The Bachelors’ Last Stand,” they called it. They’d been firm friends since their undergraduate days at Oxford and nothing, they vowed, would ever come between them.
    Oxford. Those were the days, those golden, halcyon days of their youth.
    “I wish to propose a toast,” Max said, and was appalled at the crack in his voice. Maybe he’d had too much to drink as well.
    “Lud, save us,” drawled Ash Meynell, the dandy of the group. He gazed at Max through his quizzing glass. “I think the man is still alive.”
    This remark set everyone off, and they began to harangue Max for his dismal performance against Mighty Jack. Max took it in good part. In fact, these friends were so comfortable with each other that trading insults had become an art with them.
    “To Oxford,” he said, raising his brandy bottle.
    “Oxford,” they chorused, then guzzled down great, healthy swigs from the bottles that were passed around.
    From the floor of the coach, a voice said musingly, “Refresh my memory. Did any of us ever graduate from that august establishment?”
    A chorus of no’s answered the question.
    “Were we supposed to?” asked Ash, training his quizzing glass on the body on the floor.
    Tony Palmer hoisted himself into a sitting position. “I was,” he said. “Don’t ask me why. My father didn’t graduate either, but he expected better from his son. There was an awful scene when I was sent down.”
    This brought on a series of reminiscences about their years at Oxford, then led, in a convoluted way, to a round oftoasts to the king, fox hunting, actresses and opera dancers in general, and finally, and more soberly, to “absent friends.”
    Three of them were now, sadly, married and obliged to accommodate their wives’ wishes instead of their friends’ wishes. There could be no bachelor parties in Brighton for married men. It was a great joke among them that the only thing married men were good for was gout, and no one wanted to contract gout before his time, if ever.
    Max caught sight of the landmark he’d been looking for, the old church of Saint Laurence, and he roared, “Driver, stop the coach.”
    His friends were so stupefied by this sudden turn of events that Max had clambered out of the coach before they had come to themselves. When they protested, he held up his hand to silence them.
    “Gentlemen,” he said, “the carnal delights of Madame Caper’s establishment are not for me. You may have noticed that during our bout, Jack Cleaver practically unmanned me. Frankly, I’m still in agony, and if I attempt the acrobatics you so graphically described, I may never rise from my bed again.”
    “What he means,” said John, “is he can’t get it up.”
    When the laughter had died away, Max said, “I can’t argue with that. I’ll meet up with you in Brighton, then.”
    “That’s what you said last year,” drawled Ash, “but you did not show. Do you know what I think, Max? I think you’re becoming a prime candidate for gout. My mother tells me it happens to all Corinthians sooner or later.”
    This provoked a howl of protests. When there was a momentary silence, Max said, “Ash, you should know me better than that. I’m too careful to come down with gout. I’ll make it to Brighton, though I can’t spare more than a few days. My business is taking me to Exeter for the next month or two, and I can’t get away for longer than that.”
    “What business?” a slurred voice demanded.
    “Didn’t you know? Max has made an offer for the