Quid non saeva sibi voluit Fortuna licere?
Aut ubi non mors est, si iugulatis aquae?
His chin in his hands, he pored over the Latin in utter despair, and rising, started for the door.
Then he paused; “I must do it myself—” he murmured: “I must.”
So he hunted the shelves until he found a Latin Dictionary.
He was not entirely unversed in the rudiments of the language, for Stone had directed his education at such odd hours as he could find time for study.
And so after some hard and laborious digging, Fibsy at last gathered the gist of the Latin stanza.
His eyes shone, and he stared about the room.
“It ain’t possible—” he told himself, “and yet—gee, there ain’t nothing else possible!” He rose and looked out at every window, he noted carefully the catches—he paced from the desk to the small rear windows of the room, and back again.
“It’s the only thing,” he reiterated, “the only thing. Oh, gee! what a thing!”