“It’s a precious rum thing,” said Richardson, “neither you nor Heathcote can remember a simple question like that. I’d almost forgot it, myself.”
“I know I shan’t remember anything when the time comes,” said Heathcote. “I said my Latin Syntax over to Ashford, without a mistake, yesterday, and I’ve forgotten every word of it now.”
“What I funk is the vivâ voce Latin prose,” said Coote. “I say, Dick, what’s the gender of ‘Amnis, a river?’”
Dick looked knowing, and laughed.
“None of your jokes,” said he, “you don’t catch me that way—‘Amnis,’ a city, is neuter.”
Coote’s face lengthened, as he made a further note on his other thumb-nail.
“I could have sworn it was a river,” said he. “I say, whatever shall I do? I don’t know how I shall get through it.”
“Through what—the river?” said Heathcote. “Bless you, you’ll get through swimmingly.”
There was a moment’s pause. Richardson looked at Coote; Coote looked at Richardson, and between them they thought they saw a joke.
Tom pulled up by the road-side once more, while Heathcote arranged with his creditors on the floor of the waggonette. When, at length, the order to proceed was given, that trusty Jehu ventured on a mild expostulation. “Look’ee here, young gem’an,” said he, touching his hat. “You’ve got to get to Templeton by ten o’clock, and it’s past nine now. I guess you’d better save up them larks for when you’re coming home.”