“It was a casus eventus—an accident,” the fair-cheeked lad repeated, very proud of his ability in the dead language.
“We are very sorry,” put in Joe, “and I’ll pay for having your hat ironed.”
“We threw in conjunctim,” murmured Peaches.
“Ha! A very good attempt at the Latin—at least some of the words are,” admitted Professor Rodd. “They do credit to your studying, Lantfeld, but how in the world did you ever get casus eventus into accident?”
“Why—er—it’s so in the dictionary, Professor,” pleaded Peaches.
“Yes, but look up the substantive, and remember your endings. Here I’ll show you,” and, pulling from his pocket a Latin dictionary, which he was never without, Professor Rodd, sticking his battered hat back on his head, began to quote and translate and do all manner of things with the dead language, to show Peaches where he had made his errors. And Peaches, sacrificing himself on the altar of friendship, stood there like a man, nodding his head and agreeing with everything the instructor said, whether he understood it or not.
“Your conjunctim was not so bad,” complimented the professor, “but I could never pass casus eventus. However, I am glad to see that you take an interest in your studies. I wish more of the boys did. Now take the irregular conjugation for instance. We will begin with the indicative mood and——”
The professor’s voice was droning off into his classroom tones. Peaches held his ground valiantly.
“Come on, fellows, cut for it!” whispered Teeter hoarsely. “Leg it, Joe. Peaches will take care of him.”
“But the hat—I damaged it—I want to pay for it,” objected our hero, who was square in everything.