“Why are you called Tom Metters?” asked the captain as a feeble effort to turn the tables.
“I be called Tom after my uncle, and Metters is my father’s name—but Quinquagesima?”
“Quin-qua-gess-im-a!” mused the Captain, and looked furtively towards my lady for help, but she was engrossed in teaching her class what books were not to be employed for the establishment of doctrine, and did not notice the appeal.
“Yes, sir,” persisted Metters, holding him as a ferret holds the throat of a rabbit, “Quinquagesima.”
“I think,” said Tubb eagerly, “we were engaged on David’s mighty men. Go on with the mighty men.”
“But, please sir, I do want to know about Quinquagesima, cruel bad.”
“Quin-qua-gess-ima,” sighed Capt. Tubb, nibbling the ends of his beard; then again in a lower sigh, “Quin-qua-gess-ima?” He looked at Arminell for enlightenment, but in vain. She was listening amused and scornful.
“Gessima—gessima!” said Mr Tubb; then falteringly: “It’s a sort of creeper, over veranders.”
He saw a flash in Arminell’s eye, and took it as encouragement. Then, with confidence he advanced.
“Yes, Metters, it means that this is the Sunday or week whereabouts the yaller jessamine—or in Latin, gessima—do begin to bloom.”