‘Does it?  It doesn’t with me.’

‘Oh-blight-us,’ Beetle corrected hastily, ’forgetful—­anciliorum, of the shields, or trophies—­et nominis, and the—­his name—­et togae, and the toga—­eternaeque Vestae, and eternal Vesta—­incolumi Jove, Jove being safe—­et urbe Roma, and the Roman city.’  With an air of hardly restrained zeal—­’Shall I go on, sir?’

Mr. King winced.  ’No, thank you.  You have indeed given us a translation!  May I ask if it conveys any meaning whatever to your so-called mind?’

‘Oh, I think so, sir.’  This with gentle toleration for Horace and all his works.

‘We envy you.  Sit down.’

Beetle sat down relieved, well knowing that a reef of uncharted genitives stretched ahead of him, on which in spite of M’Turk’s sailing-directions he would infallibly have been wrecked.

Rattray, who took up the task, steered neatly through them and came unscathed to port.

‘Here we require drama,’ said King.  ’Regulus himself is speaking now.  Who shall represent the provident-minded Regulus?  Winton, will you kindly oblige?’

Winton of King’s House, a long, heavy, tow-headed Second Fifteen forward, overdue for his First Fifteen colours, and in aspect like an earnest, elderly horse, rose up, and announced, among other things, that he had seen ‘signs affixed to Punic deluges.’  Half the Form shouted for joy, and the other half for joy that there was something to shout about.

Mr. King opened and shut his eyes with great swiftness. ’Signa adfixa delubris,’ he gasped.  ’So delubris is “deluges” is it?  Winton, in all our dealings, have I ever suspected you of a jest?’

‘No, sir,’ said the rigid and angular Winton, while the Form rocked about him.

’And yet you assert delubris means “deluges.”  Whether I am a fit subject for such a jape is, of course, a matter of opinion, but....  Winton, you are normally conscientious.  May we assume you looked out delubris?’

‘No, sir.’  Winton was privileged to speak that truth dangerous to all who stand before Kings.

‘’Made a shot at it then?’

Every line of Winton’s body showed he had done nothing of the sort.  Indeed, the very idea that ‘Pater’ Winton (and a boy is not called ‘Pater’ by companions for his frivolity) would make a shot at anything was beyond belief.  But he replied, ‘Yes,’ and all the while worked with his right heel as though he were heeling a ball at punt-about.

Though none dared to boast of being a favourite with King, the taciturn, three-cornered Winton stood high in his House-Master’s opinion.  It seemed to save him neither rebuke nor punishment, but the two were in some fashion sympathetic.

‘Hm!’ said King drily.  ’I was going to say—­Flagito additis damnum, but I think—­I think I see the process.  Beetle, the translation of delubris, please.’