’What?  Oh, I see. Non hoc semper erit liminis aut aquae caelestis patiens latus[2].’  King’s mouth twitched to hide a grin.  ’Was that done with intention?’

[Footnote 2:  ’This side will not always be patient of rain and waiting on the threshold.’]

‘I—­I thought it fitted, sir.’

’It does.  It’s distinctly happy.  What put it into your thick head, Paddy?’

‘I don’t know, sir, except we did the Ode last term.’

’And you remembered?  The same head that minted probrosis as a verb!  Vernon, you are an enigma.  No!  This Side will not always be patient of unheavenly gases and waters.  I will make representations to our so-called Moderns.  Meantime (who shall say I am not just?) I remit you your accrued pains and penalties in regard to probrosim, probrosis, probrosit and other enormities.  I oughtn’t to do it, but this Side is occasionally human.  By no means bad, Paddy.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Vernon, wondering how inspiration had visited him.

Then King, with a few brisk remarks about Science, headed them back to Regulus, of whom and of Horace and Rome and evil-minded commercial Carthage and of the democracy eternally futile, he explained, in all ages and climes, he spoke for ten minutes; passing thence to the next Ode—­Delicta Majorum—­where he fetched up, full-voiced, upon—­’Dis te minorem quod geris imperas’ (Thou rulest because thou bearest thyself as lower than the Gods)—­making it a text for a discourse on manners, morals, and respect for authority as distinct from bottled gases, which lasted till the bell rang.  Then Beetle, concertinaing his books, observed to Winton, ‘When King’s really on tap he’s an interestin’ dog.  Hartopp’s chlorine uncorked him.’

‘Yes; but why did you tell me delubris was “deluges,” you silly ass?’ said Winton.

‘Well, that uncorked him too.  Look out, you hoof-handed old owl!’ Winton had cleared for action as the Form poured out like puppies at play and was scragging Beetle.  Stalky from behind collared Winton low.  The three fell in confusion.

‘Dis te minorem quod geris imperas,’ quoth Stalky, ruffling Winton’s lint-white locks.  ’Mustn’t jape with Number Five study.  Don’t be too virtuous.  Don’t brood over it.  ’Twon’t count against you in your future caree-ah.  Cheer up, Pater.’

‘Pull him off my—­er—­essential guts, will you?’ said Beetle from beneath.  ‘He’s squashin’ ’em.’

They dispersed to their studies.

* * * * *

No one, the owner least of all, can explain what is in a growing boy’s mind.  It might have been the blind ferment of adolescence; Stalky’s random remarks about virtue might have stirred him; like his betters he might have sought popularity by way of clowning; or, as the Head asserted years later, the only known jest of his serious life might have worked on him, as a sober-sided man’s one love