“My dear chap,” replied Johnson soothingly, “what, all that? ‘Bradley’s Exercises’ couldn’t have done it right off: it would have taken Cicero all his time.”
“Well, of course, it was a long story,” Robin admitted; and confidence was partially restored. A bold stroke of Miller’s completed the work. I think he must have overheard part of Robin’s question, as he passed behind us to concoct a parting drink for O’Brien. He returned with a post card in his hand.
“Talking of Latin reminds me that I got a Latin postcard from an old Oxford friend this morning, which you may like to hear:
“‘Dives quidam ad portas’—h’m, let me translate it to save time.”
A certain rich man having arrived at the gates of heaven begged St. Peter to admit him into the company of the blest. “Admit thee, O Dives?” said the holy janitor: “what good thing hast thou done in thy life?”
Dives paulisper meditatus—er—that is, after a little thought Dives replied, “Once I gave an obol to a poor man who asked an alms of me.”
“One obol! thou!” said the saint: “is there nothing more of good?”
“And another time,” pleaded Dives, “on a very cold day, a poor boy, scantily clad and ill fed, offered to sell me for an obol a box of fire-bringing sticks (I suppose Dives meant matches), and moved with compassion, I gave him the obol, nor accepted the sticks.”
The saint, much perplexed, turning to the Archangel Michael, enquires what should be done: “O sancte Petre” inquit ille, “hunc duobus obolis donatum ad Orcum demittas.”
“Which, I think, we may translate ‘give him twopence, and send him downstairs.’ Like to see the card, Goodfellow?” And Robin was satisfied, though the Latin was beyond his grasp. “Is it St. Augustine?” he asked.