"'Dog-eyed son of Jones [I must learn dat], now shalt dou meet dy doom. To him Jones, de god-like son o' Jones—' say, how did dese fellers all have different names from der faders?"
"Never mind; go on with the trot."
"'T'ink not to turn my heart to water wid your vauntin' words' [always jawin' before dey fight].
"He spake and t'rew his mighty spear and struck full in de midst of Jones' buckler round. It pierced eight folds of tough bull-hide and t'rough de brazen breastplate and cut de linen vest beneat' [dat Jones was a daisy]. Den Jones, poisin' his mighty spear, prayed to Jove: 'Oh, fader Jove, wreak now meet punishment on dis offender; send him to de shades by my arm,'—say, what's he always stoppin' to talk to dat feller for in de middle of a scrap?"
"Shut up and go on!"
"He trew his spear in turn, but de point fell harmless. Den again he cried aloud: 'Oh, fader Jove, dou art de most unkind'—was Jove de referee?"
"Look here, Jamesey, if you don't stop talking we'll dock your pay."
"Den sure de light had sped from Jones' eyes, but mudder Venus, when she saw her son hard-pressed, flew to his side. From de field she bore him far from Jones' wrat', wrapped in a hollow cloud [de h—— she did! Dat's de silliest fight ever I hear on.]"
At the end of the "grinding bee" young Mr. Casey was dismissed with coins, a cigarette, and advice to restrict his annotations in future lectures.
Rattleton struggled along in his new mode of life for a week or two longer, until his last examination a few days before Class Day. Ned had sent him to bed early on the night before. At breakfast, and on the way over to University, Nestor gave his final advice.