The fact of the matter was, these virtuous young gentlemen were suffering from that most painful of maladies—dulness.
They had nothing to do—that is, they had nothing to do but work and play cricket. The latter was all very well, but even cricket, when it means three practices a day presided over by a strict senior, gets to be a little wearisome.
As for the work—they groaned as they thought of it. It hadn’t been so bad at the beginning of the term, when Bosher’s crib to the Caesar and Wakefield’s key to Colenso’s arithmetic had lent them their genial aid. But ever since Mr Parrett, in the vindictiveness of his heart, had suddenly started Eutropius in the place of Caesar, and Todhunter in the place of Colenso, life had barely been worth living.
It was this last grievance which was the special topic of discussion at an informal tea-party held, about a week after the Rockshire match, in Parson’s study.
The company solaced their wounded feelings with unlimited bloater-paste and red-currant jam, and under the soothing influence of these condiments, aided by the watery contents of Parson’s teapot, their sorrows found relief in words.
“I bet anything he pitched on Eutropius,” said Parson, with his cup to his lips, “because he knows nobody ever wrote a crib to him.”
“I don’t suppose any one could make him out enough,” said King. “It’s awful rot.”
“Yes, and Ashley says it’s awfully bad Latin.”
Parson laughed satirically.
“Jolly lot they care what sort of Latin it is as long as they can do us over it.”