“Nor do you,” retorted Jones; “if the apology is returnable.”
“I suppose not,” owned the other with a sigh. “I’ve often thought that my classical capacity would gain more recognition if I didn’t have a skin like Bob Fitzsimmons and hands like Ty Cobb. Nevertheless, I’m in and of the department of Latin of Johns Hopkins University. Name, Warren. Sit down.”
“Thanks,” said the other. “Name, Jones. Profession, advertising advisor. Object, curiosity.”
“A. V. R. E. Jones; better known as Average Jones, I believe?”
“‘Experto crede! Being dog Latin for ‘You seem to know all about it.’” The new-comer eyed his vis-à-vis. “Perhaps you—er—know Mr. Robert Bertram,” he drawled.
“Oculus—the eye—tauri—of the bull. Bull’s eye!” said the freckled one, with a grin. “I’d heard of your exploits through Bertram, and thought probably you’d follow the bait contained in my letter to him.”
“Nothing wrong with your nerve-system, is there?” inquired Average Jones with mock anxiety. “Now that I’m here, where is L. Livius. And so forth?”
“Elegantly but uncomfortably housed with Colonel Ridgway Graeme in his ancestral barrack on Carteret Street.”
“Is this Colonel Graeme a friend of yours?”
“Friend and—foe, tried and true. We meet twice a week, usually at his house, to squabble over his method of Latin pronunciation and his construction of the ablative case. He’s got a theory of the ablative absolute,” said Warren with a scowl, “fit to fetch Tacitus howling from the shades.”