"Who is 'me,' sir?" angrily repeated the master, his spectacles bearing full on his wondering pupil.
"Charles Van Brummel, sir," returned that renowned scholar.
"Then go down to the bottom for saying 'me.'"
Mr. Van Brummel went down, considerably chopfallen, and the master was proceeding to work, when the cathedral bell tolled out heavily, for a soul recently departed.
"What's that?" abruptly ejaculated the master.
"It's the college death-bell, sir," called out the up class, simultaneously, Van Brummel excepted, who had not yet recovered his equanimity.
"I hear what it is as well as you," were all the thanks they got. "But what can it be tolling for? Nobody was ill."
"Nobody," echoed the boys.
"Can it be a member of the Royal Family?" wondered the master—the bishop and the dean he knew were well. "If not, it must be one of the canons."
Of course it must! for the college bell never condescended to toll for any of the profane vulgar. The Royal Family, the bishop, dean, and prebendaries, were the only defunct lights, honoured by the notice of the passing-bell of Westerbury Cathedral.