“You may believe Sally, and set your minds at ease,” said the vicar. “She’s a rare judge of the weather, and as good as a farmer or sailor in that respect.”
“Are the midges a sign of rain?” asked Min; “I never heard that before.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Miss Pimpernell, seating herself in the gondola, which we had now reached. “They always dance about twelve hours or so before it rains.”
“Are there not some other signs given by animals, also, when there is going to be a change in the weather?” asked Bessie Dasher.
“Yes,” said Mr Mawley, anxious, as usual, to show off his erudition, “cows low, swallows fly near the ground, sheep bleat, and—”
“Asses bray,” said I, with emphasis.
“So I hear,” said he quickly. The curate was getting sharper than ever.
“Ah,” said I, “that is only a ‘tu quoque!’”
“What is that?” asked Bessie Dasher, thinking I was making use of some term of virulent abuse, I verily believe.
“Oh!” said Mr Mawley, who was in high feather at having retorted my cut so brilliantly, “it is only a polite way of saying ‘you’re another,’ an expression which I dare say you have often heard vulgar little boys in the street make use of. I say, Lorton,” he added, addressing me, “I think that’s one to me, eh?”