“I say, Digby,” cried a boy from the opposite side of the table, “they give you the credit of that cognomen—but we are all in the dark as to its origin.”
“Like the origin of all truly great,” answered Frank, “it was very simple: Churchill came one day to me with his usual ‘Do tell us a bit, that's a good fellow,’ and after he had badgered me some minutes, I asked him if he had not the smallest idea of his lesson—so, after looking at it another minute, he begins thus, ‘Omnes, all.’ ‘Bravo!’ replied I. ‘Conticuere—What's that, Frank?’ ‘Were silent,’ I answered: ‘Go on.’ After deep cogitation, and sundry hints, he discovered that tenebant must have some remote relationship to a verb signifying to hold fast, and forthwith a bright thought strikes him, and on we go: ‘Intentique ora tenebant—and intently they hold their oars,’ he said, exultingly. ‘Very well,’ quoth I, approvingly, and continued for him, ‘Inde toro pater—the waters flowed glibly farther on, ab alto—to the music of the spheres; the inseparable Castor and Pollux looking down benignantly on their namesake below.’ Here I was stopped by the innocent youth's remark, that I certainly was quizzing, for he knew that Castor and Pollux were the same in Latin as in English. Whereupon, I demanded, with profound gravity, whether gemini did not mean twins, and if the twins were not Castor and Pollux—and if he knew (who knew so much better than I) whether or no there might not be some word in the Latin language, besides gemini, signifying twins; and that if it was his opinion that I was quizzing, he had better do his lesson himself. He looked hard, and, thinking I was offended, begged pardon; and believing that jubes was Castor and Pollux, we got on quite famously—and he was quite reassured when we turned from the descriptive to the historical, beginning with Æneas sic orsus infandum—Æneas was such a horrid bear.”
“Didn't you tell him of his mistake?” asked Louis, who could not help laughing.
“What! spoil the fun and the lesson I meant to give him?—not I.”
“Well, what then, Frank?” said Reginald.
“Why, imagine old Whitworth's surprise, when, confident in the free translation of a first-class man, Oars flowed on as glibly as the waters; Whitworth heard him to the end in his old dry way, and then asked him where he got that farrago of nonsense;—I think he was promoted to the society of dunces instanter, and learns either Delectus or Eutropius now. Of course, he never applied again to me.”
Louis did not express his opinion that Frank was ill-natured, though he thought so, in spite of the hearty laugh with which his story was greeted. When he turned again to his lesson, he found his book had been abstracted.
“I tell you what,” cried Reginald, fiercely, “I won't have Louis tormented—who has taken his book? It's you, Ferrers, I am sure.”
“I! did you ever!” replied that young gentleman. “I appeal to you, Digby—did you see me touch his book?”
“I did not, certainly,” said Frank.