“Que, and—” I repeated.
“And what, sir?” thundered the master, rising in his seat and leaning across his desk towards me. It was awful. I was never more miserable in my life.
“Caesar, Caesar,” I stammered. Here at least was a word I could translate, so I repeated it—“Que, and—Caesar, Caesar.”
A dead silence, scarcely broken by a titter from the back desks.
“Jam,” I chokingly articulated, and there stuck.
“Well, sir, and what does jam mean?” inquired the voice, in a tone of suppressed wrath.
“Jam”—again I stuck.
Another dead silence.
“Que, and—Caesar, Caesar; jam”—It was no use; the only jam I knew of I was certain would not do in this case, so I began again in despair; “Que, and—Caesar, Caesar; jam—jam—jam.”
The master shut his book, and I knew the storm had burst.