"So long."
So started a friendship, one of the sincerest and firmest that either ever enjoyed. And yet, as Harry pointed out afterward, it was founded on insincerity and falsehood. Harry's whole part in this first conversation was no more than a tissue of lies. He was extremely fond of Latin, and was so good at it that his entire preparation for his recitations consisted in looking up a few unfamiliar words beforehand; he could always fit the sentences together when he was called upon to construe. It had never occurred to him to use a translation. He was rather fond of Livy, whose flowing and complicated style appealed to him. He gave a false answer to every question merely for the pleasure of agreeing with Trotwood, whom he liked already without knowing why.
The two got into the habit of doing their Latin lesson together regularly, three times a week. Trotwood did not buy a trot, after all; he found Harry quite as good.
"My, but you're a shark," he said in undisguised admiration one evening, as Harry brought order and clarity into a difficult passage. "You certainly didn't learn to do that in this country. You're English, anyway, aren't you?"
"Lord, no; Yankee. Born in New Haven. I have lived over there for some years, though."
"Go to school there?"
"Yes; Harrow."
"Gosh." Trotwood stared at him for a few moments in dazed silence. He stood on the brink of a world that he knew no more of than Balboa did of the Pacific. "What sort of a place is it?"
"Oh, wonderful."
"You played cricket, I suppose, and—and those things?"