The master, to add to my misery, was cross, and began proceedings by ordering Evans to learn twenty lines for laughing in school-time. I glanced at the fellows round me. Some were taking a last peep at their books. Others, with bright and confident faces, waited quietly for the lesson to begin. No one that I could see was as badly off as I. Every one knew something. I knew nothing. Just at the last moment I found the place in the “crib” and in the Caesar at the same time, but scarcely had I done so when the awful voice of the master spoke:
“Stand up!” All dictionaries and notes had now to be put away; all except the Latin books.
I had contrived to get off the first two lines, and only hoped the master might pitch on me to begin. And he did pitch on me.
“Charles Smith,” I heard him say, and my heart jumped to my mouth, “stand forward and begin at ‘jamque Caesar.’”
“Please, sir, we begin at ‘His et aliis,’” I faltered.
“You begin where I tell you, sir,” sternly replied he.
A dead silence fell over the class, waiting for me to begin. I was in despair. Oh, if only I had not dawdled! I would give all my pocket-money for this term to know a line of that horrid Caesar.
“Come, sir, be quick,” said the master.
Then I fetched a sigh very like a sob, and began—
“Que, and—” I heard the master’s foot scrape ominously on the floor.