This utterly senseless remark I had no opportunity of answering, so I determined to sulk with Doe, as soon as the interval should arrive.  When, however, the bell rang for that ten-minutes’ excitement, I forgot everything in the glee of thinking that the second period would be spent with Herr Reinhardt.  Ten minutes to go, and then—­and then, Mr. Caesar!

Sec.3

In the long corridor, on to which Radley’s class-room opened, gathered our elated form, awaiting the arrival of Herr Reinhardt.  He was late.  He always was:  and it was a mistake to be so, for it gave us the opportunity, when he drew near, of asking one another the time in French:  “Kell er eight eel?  Onze er ay dammy.  Wee, wee.”

Caesar Reinhardt, the German, remains upon my mind chiefly as being utterly unlike a German:  he was a long man, very deaf, with drooping English moustaches, and such obviously weak eyes that now, whenever Leah’s little eye-trouble is read in Genesis, I always think of Reinhardt.  But I think of him as “Mr. Caesar.”  Why “Mr. Caesar” and not purely “Caesar” I cannot explain, but the “Mr.” was inseparable from the nickname.  Good Mr. Caesar was misplaced in his profession.  Had he not been obliged to spend his working life in the position of one who has just been made to look a fool, he would have been an attractive and lovable person.  He had the most beautiful tenor voice, which, when he spoke was like liquid silver, and, when he sang elaborate opera passages, made one see glorious wrought-steel gateways of heavenly palaces.  This inefficient master owed his position to the great vogue enjoyed by his books:  “Reinhardt’s German Conversation,” “Reinhardt’s French Pieces,” and others.  But the boys, by common consent, decided not to identify this “Caesar Reinhardt, Modern Language Master at Kensingtowe School” with their own dear Mr. Caesar.  Thus, you see, in their ignorance, they were able to bring up the Reinhardt works to Mr. Caesar, and say with worried brows:  “Here, sir.  This bally book’s all wrong”; “I could write a better book than this myself, sir”; “The Johnny who wrote this book, sir—­well, st. st.” Pennybet, however, used to tremble on the brink of identification, when he made the idiotic mistake of saying:  “Shall I bring up my Caesar, sir,—­I mean, my Reinhardt?”

The jubilation of our class, as we lolled or clog-danced in the corridor, had need to be organised into some systematic fooling; and for once in a way, the boys accepted a suggestion of mine.

“Let’s all hum ‘God Save the King’ exactly at twelve o’clock.  Mr. Caesar won’t hear; he’s too deaf.”

Immediately several boys started to sing the popular air in question, and others went for a slide along the corridor, both of which performances are generally construed as meaning:  “Right-ho!”

“It’s crude,” commented Penny, “but I’ll not interfere.  I might even help you—­who knows?  And here comes Mr. Caesar.  Ah, wee, wee.”