"Who's that, Peter?"
"Now, if the idle young gentleman drawing pictures—"
"Tertia vigilia eruptionem fecerunt"—oh, they did, did they? What of that?...
"Rugby," said the Professor, who had a way of enlivening his classes with matters of the outer world—"Rugby, as I have heard my friend Dr. Primrose say, who was a Rugby boy himself, is very different from our public schools. Only the other day he was telling me of a school-mate, a professor now, who had returned to England, and who had spent a day there rambling about the ivied buildings, and searching, I suppose, for the ancient form where he had carved his name. Dr. Primrose told me how, as this old friend lingered on the greensward where the boys played cricket, as he himself had done on that very spot—fine, manly fellows in their white flannels—he heard not a single oath or vulgar word in all that hour he loitered there. One young player called to another who ran too languidly after the ball. 'Aren't you playing, Brown?' he cried, with a touch of irony in his voice."
The Professor paused.
"I have heard stronger language on our playground here."
He paused again, adding, impressively: