"Sir"—startled, Reuben saw his brother rising, not quite knocking over his little desk—"sir, may I ask a favor?"
Mr. Hibbs' lank features froze, but not completely. "Yes, my boy?"
"Last night, sir, I wrote out a translation of the lines in De Finibus that you assigned us for this afternoon. I—wished to know if I could do so without aid. I mean, sir—Ru hath helped me often at other times, being swifter at these things, so I—so I didn't tell him of it. And if it be satisfactory, Mr. Hibbs, may I go to Boston this afternoon?"
Mr. Hibbs stared at the paper Ben handed him, like a man hit by a chunk of firewood. "Done without aid, ha?"
"It was, sir. I even waited till Ru was asleep, for fear I'd give up and ask him for help after all."
Reuben gazed deeply into the swirling black midgets that had been the text of Ovid; he instructed himself: It doesn't matter. It does not matter. Seeing that he will go—
"No objection," Mr. Hibbs was saying vacantly—"no objection to the two of you helping each other: I expect it and you profit by it, but I can see, I understand, Benjamin, I—uh—commend your industry and the sentiment that must have prompted it." His voice trailed away under the threat of another sneeze, and Reuben knew that he must speak.
"It's quite true, Mr. Hibbs. I knew nothing of it till just now." Was that good enough? Did I snarl, or squeak?...
"Of course. This translation is—not bad, Benjamin. Some errors, but nothing that cannot be caught up—uh—tomorrow. I'm assuming your great-uncle hath nothing against it, or you would mention it, being"—the sneeze arrived and passed on—"being an honorable boy. Yes, you may have the afternoon. No precedent, of course."
"I understand that, sir, and thank you."