"Ah, my dear Mr. Charles, I am afraid I have credit for more Latin than I possess. Nothing is so hard for a scholar as to live up to his reputation."
He even glanced furtively down the street, debating whether he should clap on full sail forthwith, and resume his voyage before the postmaster's prodigy could gratify Edward John by giving him a Latin poser. Only for a moment did he hesitate, however, and recovering his self-confidence, Mr. Needham continued brazenly:
"But, after all, one does not master Latin so soon as that. Henry, I am afraid, will still have much to learn of the classic tongue."
"But won't you try me, sir?" blurted out the youthful subject of discussion. "I should really like to be tested."
"Come now, do, Mr. Needham," urged the postmaster teasingly, his face shining with pleasure in delighted anticipation of the coming battle of wits. "Tackle 'im on Virgil; tackle 'im on Virgil. Put 'im through 'is paces, do, and let's see what's in the led."
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Mr. Charles; but I am pressed this morning, and must not delay further. Some other day, perhaps, I shall see how he stands in the classics, but really I must be off. Good morning, Mr. Charles; good morning, Henry!"
So saying, the vicar beat a retreat, and as Edward John watched the breeze-blown frock-coat and the twinkling calipers disappear eastward, he cherished the suspicion that the Rev. Godfrey Needham really did not know so much of Latin after all. Nor did the shrewd Mr. Charles arrive at a wrong conclusion. The dear old vicar's reputation as a Latinist rested almost entirely on the fact that it was his custom when showing a visitor through the Parish Church of Hampton Bagot to point to several memorials in the chancel, and after asking if the visitor knew Latin, to glibly recite the inscriptions in that tongue, and follow this up by condescending to give their English equivalents. It was a harmless vanity, and was typical of many little corners in the quaint character of this good man.
Miffin had now accomplished the elaborate ceremony of opening his inefficient shop, and sniffing contemptuously as he retired indoors at the presumptuous Mr. Charles, whose encounter with the vicar he had carefully overheard, he had the satisfaction of seeing the portly form of Edward John disappear inside the Post Office, presumably for the purpose of doing a little business.
"And now, 'Enry," said the proud parent, still chuckling at the obvious retreat of the vicar, "it is time for school, my boy. Remember, tempus fugits. Yes, my word, tempus do fugit."
Thus admonished, the rising hope of the postmaster shouldered his satchel and set out schoolward.