“We—I—er—that is—we all were having a throwing contest,” explained Teeter Nelson, diffidently, “and—er——”
“You certainly all didn’t throw at me,” interrupted the professor. “Only two balls struck me, and I demand to know who threw them. Or shall I report you all to Dr. Fillmore and have him keep you in bounds for a week; eh?”
“Nobody meant to hit you, Professor,” put in Tom. “You see——”
“Will you or will you not answer my question?” snapped the instructor, in the same tone of voice he used in the classroom, when some luckless lad was stuttering and stammering over the difference between the gerund and the gerundive. “Who threw the balls?”
“I—I’m afraid I did,” faltered Joe. “I threw one, and—and——”
“I threw the other,” popped out Peaches. “But it was an accident, Professor.”
“An accident! Humph!”
“Yes,” eagerly went on Peaches, who, having been longer at the school than Joe, knew better how to handle the irate instructor. “You see it was this way: We were having a contest, and wanted to see who could throw over the trees. Instead of throwing primus, secondus, and tertius as we might have done, Joe and I threw together—um—er—ah conjunctim so to speak,” and Peaches managed to keep a straight face even while struggling to find the right Latin word. “Yes, we threw conjunctim—together—and we both wanted to see who could do the best—er—supero—you know, and—er we—well, it was an accident—casus eventus. We are awfully sorry, and——”
Professor Rodd gave an audible sniff, but there was a marked softening of the hard lines about his face. He was an enthusiastic Latin scholar, and the trial of his life was to know that most of his pupils hated the study—indeed as many boys do. So when the teacher found one who took the trouble in ordinary conversation to use a few Latin words, or phrases, the professor was correspondingly pleased. Peaches knew this.