I'd like to kick them," said he.
By an odd coincidence I put the same question on the following day to my young brother.
"Eh ?" said he, "what do you call them, you know, the thingamybobs that lived in Mount what's its name?
I'm sick of 'em." "Mount Olympus, you mean ?" "That's it--" "Mount Olympus, Pack of Shrimpers." This was a good specimen of my brother's poetic style! I gathered from this that a new bond of sympathy had arisen between the two friends.

They had both been ploughed in an unexpected paper on Greek Mythology, and were in consequence death on the divinities.

I genuinely pitied the divinities! Well--mind, as I wasn't in the affair, I can only relate it as I heard it--a very curious adventure happened to Magnus Minor and my young brother, shortly after this.
It was in the holidays, and we went, as usual, to Llandudno; and oddly enough, Magnus's people went there too.

The two chums consequently had an opportunity of feeding the fires that consumed them, and of carrying on their feud with the Greek gods in boats and bathing machines, on the Great Orme's Head, and in the pier refreshment-room.

Whenever I came across them they were still implacable; and once or twice I believe they actually spoke to one another on the subject, which shows how deeply they felt.
One day they made up their minds to do Snowdon, and with a respectable basket of provender, and an alpenstock apiece (on which the name of the mountain--in fact, several mountains, had already been cut), they started off by the train to Llanberis.
Magnus minor, being an athlete, occupied most of the journey in training himself on cold boiled eggs and damsons; while Joe, being a poet, read somebody's "Half Holiday" in a corner.
At the place where the train stopped they got out, and wondered whether they had not already had enough of it.