“I am to go on a journey,” said Wogan, “and there’s a delicate sort of work I would trust to you.”

O’Toole looked distantly at Wogan.

“Opus,” said he, in a far-away voice.

“I want you to keep an eye on the little house in the garden—­”

O’Toole nodded. “Hortus, hortus, hortum,” said he, “horti—­hortus,” and he fingered the book at his back, “no, horti, horto, horto.  Do you know, my friend, that the difference between the second and fourth declensions was solely invented by the grammarians for their own profit.  It is of no manner of use, and the most plaguy business that ever I heard of.”

“O’Toole,” cried Wogan, with a bang of his fist, “you are no more listening to me than this table.”

At once O’Toole’s face brightened, and with a shout of pride he reeled out, “Mensa, mensa, mensam, mensae, mensae, mensa.”  Wogan sprang up in a rage.

“Don’t mensa, mensam me when I am talking most seriously to you!  What is it you are after?  What’s that book you are hiding?  Let me look at it!” O’Toole blushed on every visible inch of him and handed the book to Wogan.

“It’s a Latin grammar, my friend,” said he, meekly.

“And what in the world do you want to be addling your brains with a Latin grammar for, when there’s other need for your eyes?”

“Aren’t we to be enrolled at the Capitol in June as Roman Senators with all the ancient honours, cum titubis—­it is so—­cum titubis, which are psalters or pshawms?”

“Well, what then?”

“You don’t understand, Charles, the difficulty of my position.  You have Latin at your finger-ends.  Sure, I have often admired you for your extraordinary comprehension of Latin, but never more than I do now.  It will be no trouble in the world for you to trip off a neat little speech, thanking the Senators kindly for the great honour they are doing themselves in electing us into their noble body.  But it will not be easy for me,” said O’Toole, with a sigh.  “How can I get enough Latin through my skull by June not to disgrace myself?” He looked so utterly miserable and distressed that Wogan never felt less inclined to laugh.  “I sit up at nights with a lamp, but the most unaccountable thing happens.  I may come in here as lively as any cricket, but the moment I take this book in my hands I am overpowered with sleep—­”

“Oh, listen to me,” cried Wogan.  “I have only a fortnight—­”

“And I have only till June,” sighed O’Toole.  “But there!  I am listening.  I have no doubt, my friend, your business is more important than mine,” he said with the simplicity of which not one of his friends could resist the appeal.  Wogan could not now.

“My business,” he said, “is only more important because you have no need of your Latin grammar at all.  There’s a special deputy, a learned professor, appointed on these occasions to make a speech for us, and all we have to do is to sit still and nod our heads wisely when he looks towards us.”