University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
SOME BOYS VENTURE ON THE FAIR SEA OF
PHILOLOGY.

The days of boyhood, as we need hardly tell those
who ever went through them alive, are days in which
we are sure that there is a world close by us, and open
to us, in which are Greatness and Glory and Beauty;
into which world we shall, some time, go to get them.
Those are days in which hope is stronger than any
thing it meets; in which, without consciousness of our
own riches, we have hold of a share of eternity, because
things past, — the achievements of the race, men
of the furthest ages, — their words; the stands that
they made; their daring, their indignation, their endurance,
their faithfulness, their chances, failures, triumphs,
— are not gone out of being, but are all
there.

The wondrous tongues of Greece and Rome are
great to the boyish fancy, because, as boys, we come,
through them, into a sort of common nationality and
relationship with all the wise and great who breathed
the earlier air of our earth. Latin and Greek live
yet, and thrill from mighty brains and hearts within
the same nature with ourselves.

Now there were boys of fancy at St. Bartholomew's
School; and at least one current of ambition was setting,

at this time, toward discoveries in Language.
We have heard already of “Notes on Cæsar,” and
have heard the friendly encouragement to Brade. Now
it was understood in the School that a couple of Bartlemas
fellows were doing what probably had never
been tried by any boys of any school: Brade, of the
Third Form, with help from Gaston, of the Fourth,
the foremost scholar, was making a book about
Greek and Latin!

Such boys as had mouths most ready to open, as
Will Hirsett, for example, were open-mouthed about
this forthcoming wonder, but doubted whether the
Caput knew of it. Hirsett said “he knew that Brade
had an awful heap of paper to write it on” (which is
certainly one step toward book-making), and Ransom,
or somebody, “had seen him looking out ever so many
words in the dictionary, — Greek words, — when he
wasn't learning his lesson, and writing them down.”

To questions asked directly of himself about this
great work, Brade answered, with a very natural look
of satisfaction qualified with mystery, that it was not
any thing yet, but perhaps it would be; and Remsen,
when he was appealed to on the same subject, had said
that “Brade had got a notion in his head that would
astonish the world, as he (Remsen) thought. He did
not know exactly what it was himself; but it was a
very bright thing.”

Mr. Hamersley, the new tutor, in whose recitation-room
was the largest table of all, had given Brade
leave to take his books into that room, for the purpose
of this work, for two hours, every other afternoon;
and certain specified boys were to be allowed to go into
it with him.

On the second of these afternoons, there were seated
in this room Gaston and Brade; and on the great table
were two or three large books (like lexicons) lying
open, and a good deal of writing-paper, and an inkstand
and pens. All this looked like a preparation for
business; but the two, like other boys, were as yet
engaged in conversation, and both looking at a transparency
in one of the windows which seemed not like
a part of the regular furniture of the room. This was
a copy of Collins's admirable painting of the “Sale
of the Pet Lamb,” from Mrs. Howitt's story. It had
all that exquisite and wonderful shading which is
characteristic of fine specimens of that sort of art-work,
and the boys were duly impressed.

“It's too bad, isn't it?” said Gaston. “Do you suppose
they did really let it go? That girl's pushing the
butcher's boy. — She couldn't do any thing that way!”
he continued, with the wisdom of a boy a little older
than the girl, and who had sisters at home, and knew by
experience their faults. Then he laughed, as he saw a
new part of the scene.

“Look at that youngster pointing off into the woods.
proposing to carry the lamb off, and hide it, isn't he?
But they couldn't do it: they'd have to bring it back,”
said he again, after a pause. “No, they needn't, though.
Why couldn't they keep it off in the woods, somewhere,
and carry food to it?”

Brade was silently watching the picture (if we may
so call a thing which is without color, but which represents
most faithfully a scene of many-colored life), and
said, —

“I don't know what they did do: I only just got it
to-day,” and he looked a little longer. Then he said,

“But there's the mother; and the butcher is paying
down the money. If they sell it, they'll have to let it
go. They're poor, and they can't keep it: poor people
have to sell their things. It is too bad, isn't it?”

“Well, I'll tell you what it is,” said Gaston, smiling,
“a fellow mustn't be poor. If you get money, you can
take care of yourself, and have what you want to.”

“But there are a good many poor,” said the other,
“and they can't help themselves.”

“Well, all I say is, you mustn't be poor. If a fellow
can learn his lessons, he can learn a profession, and
then he can make his way.”

“It would be good if we could stop the poor from
losing their things,” said Brade. “That's one thing
Peters is after, isn't it? He's always talking about
helping people.”

“Peters has got some smartness in him,” said Gaston;
“but he hasn't got any gumption. I don't believe it'll
come to any thing. I'll tell you, you'll have to get rich
yourself first: oh, you are; but I ain't. You won't
have to do any work, if you don't want to; but I shall.
And my father always said, `Work earns pay; and good
work earns good pay.'”

“I mean to work all my life, just as hard as I'm
working now,” said Antony, with quiet determination.
“Every man ought to work.”

“If you don't work any harder than you're working
now,” said Gaston, laughing, “I don't think it'll amount
to much;” and then, without further words, but laughing,
Brade gathered the papers toward himself.

“I'll take it down now,” he said, “and then we sha'n't
look at it;” and he went toward the window.

“You won't have to do that, though,” said Gaston.
“We needn't look at it.”

“We've talked about it long enough,” said Brade;
and so he laid the transparency down on the table.

“What do you think we ought to call it?” he
asked, his mind now full of the other subject.

Gaston seemed as full of it as he, and answered
readily: —

“My father always says, `You ought to have something
steadily in your mind, and keep to it;' but he
says, `It don't matter about naming a book till you've
got through;' and he's written books. He's written
several books.”

“Wouldn't `Analogy of Languages' be good?”
Brade asked. “Analogy means that, doesn't it?”

Here there was a knock at the door; and after a
parley, to make sure who it was, Remsen was let in.

“Yes, I should think that would do,” said Gaston.
“Well, how much have you got, so far?”

Antony was busy writing down the name, which he
read, as he finished, “The Analogy of Languages.”
“You can't say Greek and Latin, can you? because
there'll be others: there'll be English, and others.”

“Why, there's Sanscrit!” exclaimed Gaston, “that
everybody's making so much of: my father says
`they'll find out every thing by that,' and he knows
a great deal about languages.”

“Oh, yes!” said Brade, eagerly, but modestly, “I
think I've thought something about that, that I can't
find in any book I've got.”

“Yes!” said Remsen, “he's made a discovery, I do
believe.”

“Don't you suppose,” asked Antony, glowing with

his expectation, “that it was called `Sanscrit' because
it wasn't written?” — He was a little nervous, as he
spoke.

“I don't know,” said Gaston: “I've thought of that;
but I never remembered to ask my father. I've heard
him talk of it, many and many a time. Let's see:
`sans' is French for `sine, without,' — that we know.
How do you make `crit'? Let's see: `écrire' is French
for `scribere, to write,' — `sans-écrit.' If it's French,
I should think everybody would know it,” and he was
evidently puzzled. Presently he assailed it again;
“`Sine scripto,' — `sin-script,' — `san-scrit,' — it might
go so, couldn't it? and then people would forget what
it came from, perhaps. — There's a word,” — he continued,
thoughtfully, — “look here! 'tisn't the one
I was thinking of; but there's `doubt' with the
`b'” —

“Look here!” exclaimed Brade, triumphantly,
“`manuscrit' is French, — with the `p' left out.”

“So it is!” cried Gaston, slapping the table. “Good.
In `doubt' you don't pronounce `b,' but then you write
it.”

“Hooray!” said Remsen, beginning to dance, for his
part. “What have you got to now? Isn't it fun?
St. Bart's School is going to be heard from.”

Our philologists must have made more noise than
they were aware of; for a giggling was heard at the
outside of the door, which showed that there were
more persons privy to the gratifying discovery just
announced than were contained within the walls of the
room. The faces, however, of the successful scholars,
radiant with joy, showed little concern about the promiscuous
crowd of nameless plodders in the ways of learn

ing who might be loitering on the other side of the
secure fastening of their own retreat. They said no
word to them; and Brade, in the full flush of the
achievement, occupied himself with making a record
of it, in enduring ink, his face all glowing with enthusiasm.

“One trouble will be that we don't know all the
languages,” said Gaston. “We know,” he continued,
confidently, “Greek and Latin and French and English,
and you know German. How many is that?”

“Six,” said Remsen, like a ready reckoner.

“Well, that's a good many, ain't it?” said Gaston.
“As far as it goes, you know, it'll be good. Come!
let's go on!”

“Shouldn't you like to take it up to the Caput?”
asked Brade.

“Yes; but let's get some more down first,” said
Gaston.

Antony began pulling forth with his forefingers, from
his waistcoat-pockets, little rolls of paper, which he
proceeded to unfold, one after another, spreading them
out upon the table. Gaston seemed disposed to depend
upon his own head: at least he made no show of producing
memoranda.

“I've got a few,” said Brade, and he began to read.

“Here's a queer one,” said he, laughing in anticipation,
“' Σμόχω :'[1] in Greek that means to chew.”

“Now, how do you suppose that ever came?” said
Gaston, with the eagerness of a scholar. “The curiosity
of it is that a fellow that smokes don't generally
chew, and a fellow that chews don't generally smoke:

I've heard my brother say so. There's a change that,
I suppose, might come round in the course of ages.
Chewing, probably, comes before smoking. They
used to chew, now they smoke. I wonder if there's
any Latin word like that. Look out smoke, or any
thing like it, in Andrews. I'm pretty sure there
isn't.”

Remsen entered into this very readily, and turned
over the leaves so fast as to get beyond it, each way,
before he hit the place; but then he proclaimed that
“there was nothing like it there. There was `smaragdus'”
(“Oh! that's Greek,” said Gaston, who had a
quick ear), “and `smilax' and `smintheus'” (“We all
know that's Greek,” said Gaston), “`and smyr —'”

“But there's nothing like `smoco,'” said Gaston;
“but I'll tell you, — we had something in our French,
to-day, `s'moquer'” — (Antony looked up from his
papers, at this new `analogy,' if that is the name; and
Remsen was tilting backward in his chair, awaiting,
with much equanimity, the progress of science. Gaston
went on), “`s'moquer,' to laugh at a fellow; when you
find him out, when you `smoke' him” —

“But that's short `o,' `moq-uer,'” said Brade, learnedly:
“in Greek it's `omega.' Besides, it's two words, —
se moquer. Oh! you're only joking. We mustn't have
any thing but what's pretty solid. I know the German:
it's schmauchen; but in German it only means `smoke.'
We've got German and Greek and English,” he added,
summing up complacently. “There's another word I
don't suppose we could bring in, — that's `schmuck,'
dress. You see `smock' 's the same word, I'm pretty
sure; and farmers wear `smocks;' but then there's
some kind of a woman's dress called that, too. If it

wasn't for that, we could bring it under `smoke,'
couldn't we? You see it's very light: they could make
tinder of it, and that's a sort of smoke.”

“I shouldn't wonder if you could bring it in so,”
said Gaston.

“If it wasn't a woman's dress,” said Brade, doubtfully.
“Well, here's another!” and he smiled pleasantly
again, in anticipation, as before his first word, and
showed no trace of that excessive irritability which
seems to belong to men of words, but was apparently
happy in the harmless rewards which science herself
gives, “` Σχώρ ' (scōr): that means `dirt,' `filth.' That's
just like `SCOUR,' isn't it? I could not find any German
for that” —

“They don't have any filth in Germany, perhaps,”
said Gaston, laughing.

“Or they don't have it scoured up,” said Remsen,
who, as it will be remembered, comes of Holland-Dutch
stock.

“There's French, I found, — `scorie,'” said Antony,
resuming.

“Hah! from the Latin!” exclaimed Gaston, promptly;
for Gaston, as we have seen, has a sharp nose. “Isn't
it Greek, too? Where's the Lexicon?” looking to
Remsen, apparently content with head-work for himself.

“Haven't you got enough?” said Remsen, to whom
the manual and mechanical part of science seemed to
come much like what would be drudgery, in any other
department. “I can't find Greek.”

Brade hastened to fill the gap: “Yes, yes, it's the
same thing as ` Σχώρ :'[2] it's from that.”

“Haven't you got enough?” asked Gaston: “that
is, for a beginning?” Then, himself suddenly feeling
the breath of science, he was carried away. “Oh!”
said he, “do you suppose our word `score' comes from
that, because it's put down in black?”

“Come!” said Remsen, “now let's stop!”

“Oh! not yet, not yet! a little more!” said Antony,
disappointed. Then, with a generalship suggested by
the occasion, as Quintus Horatius[3] says, and possibly
some other people have said, a leader's genius is displayed,
at a pinch, he secured Remsen's patience. “I've
got one of Nick's coming directly,” he said. Gaston,
though restless, had enough of a turn for philology to
make him sure, for a while.

“There are not a great many,” said Brade: “` τεμνω '
(temno), I cut; Latin, `temno,' I despise; for despising
is very cutting to the feelings, you know” —

“Ho! look here!” burst out Gaston, laughing, “if you
despise a fellow, you cut him, don't you know you do?
Yes, put that down! put that down!” and it was evident
that Gaston's interest in the work was blazing up.
“What's Remsen's?”

“` Δίψις '” (dipsis),” said Brade, “Greek, `thirst;'
Remsen found that. He says `dip' is the same thing;
for when you're thirsty, you dip up something to
drink.”

“Is that for fun, or serious earnest, Remsen?” asked
Gaston, smiling.

“No,” said Remsen: “why shouldn't it be, if there's
any thing between Greek and English?”

“Well, what next?” asked Gaston: “that's not bad
for Remsen. Put it down.”

“Here's one,” said Brade, hesitating. “I don't know
about it: I don't feel quite sure.”

“Give it to us, and let us judge for ourselves,” said
Gaston.

“Well,” said Brade, “it's ` Χεῖμα ' (Hheima[4] ), Greek,
`winter;' `hiems,' Latin, `winter.' — What I was thinking
of was,” continued Brade, hesitating, modestly,
over a venture of his own, in language, “`heimat,'
in German, means `home:' now, a man cares more for
his home, in winter, when he wants fire, and to be
warm and comfortable.”

“Pretty good!” said Gaston. “Besides, perhaps
their houses didn't amount to much, except in winter:
I don't believe they did. And there was one time, I
suppose, when they dug their houses in the snow, —
that would be their home, — winter-quarters, you
see.”

With all this, time was going by, and the light was
lessening, as Remsen reminded them; so even Antony
seemed inclined to hurry. He turned over, hastily, his
scraps of paper, and put away one or two of them in
his pocket again. Then, turning to Gaston, he asked
for his contributions to the stock.

“I thought of one,” said Gaston: “` πειθω ' (peitho), to
`persuade:' the stem of that is `pith' ( πιθ in Greek).
Now, isn't that just like it? A fellow that's got pith
in him is the fellow to persuade.”

“Come, fellows,” said Remsen, “ain't you ready to
stop yet? You've got enough to carry up to the
Caput, and show him what you're doing.”

“Would you put that in?” asked Brade of the
author of the last contribution.

“Well, I don't know,” answered Gaston. “Do as
you please. What hard work those Ancients must
have had, in thinking, when they'd got to turn it all into
Greek and Latin, in their heads!” he added, showing
by the words a glimpse of boyishness rather surprising
in one who learned like a man, and often thought and
talked like one.

“Why couldn't they think as easily as we can?”
inquired Remsen, in a matter-of-fact way.

“Why! ain't it harder to think in Latin and Greek
than it is in English?” asked Gaston, with smiling
assurance.

“But it was their own language, you know, just as
English is ours,” said Brade, — “except us Russians,” he
added.

“Well, but I appeal to you: ain't Greek or Latin
harder to think in than English? Take ` νομίζω '
(nomizo), to `think;' you've got to have `think' in
your mind first, and then ` νομίζω '; but in English it's
all one thing, isn't it?”

To this ingenious and well-put argument, neither of
the other boys answered, — perhaps not seeing their
way well through it; but Brade, setting up again his
transparency in the window for the entertainment of
his friends, while he should be occupied, professed his
own purpose of writing out, very carefully, what they
had got already, in order to carry it to the Head of the
School.

“You've got that about the Sanscrit first, haven't
you?” asked Gaston; and being assured that that was

at the top of the page, and should be made very plain,
he turned slyly to Remsen, as if leaving Brade buried
in his work, and therefore not capable of hearing or
seeing any thing besides.

“Look here!” said he, aside, laughing. “Let's get
up a little more by ourselves. You write, and I'll tell
you what to put down. First say, —

“`Greek'” —

“I can't write Greek,” pleaded Remsen.

“Well, there!” said Gaston, taking Remsen's pencil,
and writing, —

“` Μῶσαι ' [Mōsai], the same as ` Μοῦσαι ' [Mousai],
the Muses; from μῶσαι [mosai]'” —

Here, notwithstanding his being so busy, his brother
philologist, Brade, slackened the steady working of his
pen, and was evidently listening in spite of himself.
Gaston went on: —

“This verb means `to seek,' or `mouse out'” —

As he got so far, Brade's pen went on again; but the
smile on his face showed that he had been allured
before he detected Gaston.

“Oh, don't!” said he. “You put me out.”

“You put yourself out,” said Gaston. “You've no
business to listen. Here, Remsen, let's have one more”
(Brade kept himself hard at work): —

“ Σχέλος [skelos], Greek, `leg:' Neuter, Third Declension,
Genitive (old) skelesos. Skelus, Latin, `wickedness:'
Neuter, Third Declension, old Genitive
skelesis, — `is,' in Latin, answers to `os' in Greek, in
the genitive. Wickedness is transgression; transgression
is walking over: with the leg you walk over.
That's the way it came to mean `leg' in Greek, and
`wickedness' in Latin.”

“Now, Gaston, stop, please!” said Brade, “and let
me write.”

At this request, made with much urgency, Gaston
abandoned active exertion in philology, and now proceeded
to examine again and remark upon the transparency.

“Isn't the little sister pretty, kneeling down and
giving it milk?” asked Remsen.

Brade, busy as he was, looked up, as if he did not
hear, but still turning his silent and abstracted look
toward the subject of Remsen's criticism; then, without
saying any thing, looked down, and busied himself
with his work again.

“There!” said he, in a few moments, rising with a
smile of satisfaction, and laying down his pen with so
little thought that it rolled off the table and was
picked up by Remsen. “Look here! `Sanscrit: the
name probably derived from having no writings.'”

“That's as plain as printing,” said Remsen.

“Do you suppose we can be the first that found
that out?” asked Brade. “I hadn't any book to
look it out in exactly,” he said, with some appearance
of apprehension because of the importance of the thing
which was at stake. — “Oh, see!” he said, as he caught
sight of one of his scraps of paper which had escaped
being put into his pocket, and had fallen to the floor,
“I didn't know whether I ought to put this in or not:
`Limn (Latin, illumino; French, enluminer), to draw,
to paint, particularly in water-colors.' I think that
might come from Λίμνη (limne), a lake, — don't you
think it might, Gaston? — because a lake reflects every
thing, just like a drawing. What do you think of
that? I haven't put it down yet, because I don't

want to put any thing down that we're not pretty
sure of.”

This wise regard for the necessity of having all evidence
weighed, and judgment and deliberation used, in
whatever they did for a science so exact as philology,
met Gaston's approbation, too, who said at once, “Oh,
no! it wouldn't do.” The conscientiousness of our
young friends will be gratifying to men with the true
scholarly instinct, who know what Gaston and Brade
perhaps never thought of, that the happiness, if not
the lives of some hundreds of persons (philologists) is
depending upon that science's being not hastily nor
easily developed.

“Water-colors! water-colors! Has that got any
thing to do with it, do you suppose?” said Gaston.
“It can't, though, can it? That only means mixed in
water.”

“Come, Anty!” said Remsen, with a tone of good-natured
indulgence, “don't find any more; and when
you've been up, and got through, we'll go out.”

The papers were gathered together, the books shut,
the transparency taken down, and then, apportioning
a load for each, they went forth and locked Mr. Hamersley's
recitation-room, the scene of hopeful and successful
work, behind them.

“Perhaps, some of these days, they'll say it was done
in there,” said Brade, as many a discoverer or inventor
has said, with his lips or in his heart. “You'll go, too,
Gaston?” he asked, taking Remsen's going for granted;
and Gaston assented, only insisting that Brade should
be spokesman.

As the little procession approached the Rector's
door, Antony's heart began to feel more and more

strongly, perhaps, the greatness and the boldness of
their venture, for he began to lag. Gaston, however,
showed no apprehensions, and after a word or two,
to keep his more bashful comrade up to the purpose,
went straight up to the door of the Rector's study,
and knocked.

There was no answering sound. He knocked again:
there was no answer, still. Gaston began to laugh,
Remsen to caper, and Brade, raising his head from
listening, came forward, and Remsen followed.

“The Captain isn't in,” said Nicholas. “Now, let's
be off.”

Gaston, who was at home in any circumstances, flung
out his arm, and took an attitude. “`No hope of gilded
spurs, to-day!'” he said, like an orator; “`O spem
falla —!'” when suddenly the study-door opened,
and the Head of the School stood smiling at Gaston's
attitude and the expressions of the group, and then
invited them in. This introduction took off a good
deal from the solemnity of the occasion, but it also put
Brade at his ease; and Brade was not only the bearer
of the treasures of learning and intelligence contained
in their papers, but was the chief author of them.

Gaston was not a bit abashed, and at once mentioned
the purpose of the party, beginning with an explanation
of the circumstances in which they had been found at
the moment of the opening of the door.

“We thought you weren't in, sir,” he said, smiling as
he thought of it, “and so we were just beginning to
express ourselves” —

“Pretty well done, I thought, so far as I heard and
saw,” said Mr. Warren; and, having seated them comfortably,
asked, “And what now?”

“Brade,” said Gaston, continuing to be spokesman,
“has got something he wanted to show you, sir. We
boys talk over the meanings of words sometimes, and
we thought we'd found out a few things that looked
right to us. We wanted to show them to you before
we did any more.”

During this speech, Antony may be supposed to have
been sitting in a state of trembling eagerness and apprehension
also; and, as the Rector turned to him,
he got up, and modestly offered the manuscript. There
was no great deal of it as yet in amount; but it was
evident, to a glance, that what was there was made
very plain upon the paper, in clear, fair letters.

“Some more of our Greek, Antony?” the Rector
asked, as he took the paper.

“All sorts of languages, sir,” said Brade: “I mean
different languages we're learning, — two or three.”

“Oh, ho!” said the Rector, “we start with Sanscrit,
do we? That's pretty far up.”

Neither Antony nor Gaston offered a word, leaving
him to inform himself, as he would in a moment when
he began to read.

Mr. Warren read, and, as he read, he smiled. Gaston
began to smile contagiously. Antony began to blush
all over. The Rector looked up.

“Did you ever see Dean Swift's fun about Greek,”
he asked Gaston, “where he says that `Andromache'
was the daughter of an honest Scotsman named Andrew
Mackay, and kept his name; and `Pygmalion' was
really Pigmy-lion, because he was a wonderfully brave
little fellow; and so on?”

Gaston, who, as we have seen, had a turn for those
things, and was not altogether blind to fun, even where

it made against himself, pricked up his ears at this, and
laughed, while he confessed that he had never read
Dean Swift. As for Antony, his face showed a mixture
of feelings; for, while he smiled for `Pigmy-lion' and
`Andrew-Mackay,' he looked as if he did not yet know
whether his own house of words had been blown down
or not, and was not quite content.

“I think you've got some pretty good things here,”
said the Rector, encouragingly. “You've made a
capital beginning.” Then, seeing the expression of
Brade's face, he added, “Why, beginners in science pick
up pebbles and clam-shells. You've done better.”

“Some of it was half fun,” said Brade, “and some of
it” (looking round at the others) “we thought might
be something, possibly. — We didn't know.”

“Well, I'd keep on with it: it's very good practice.
There's one thing you didn't think of here. Sanscrit,
you know, is a written language” (Brade blushed
more than ever, and his head went down a little, in
spite of himself; for, as the reader knows, the boys'
definition of Sanscrit was one of their strongest points;
but a smile came out at the corners of his mouth); “in
fact,” continued the Rector, “as thoroughly written
up and written down as any language ever was: but,
while you were about it, trying to make something out
of the name, I wonder you didn't get in `Sanct-script,
sant-scrit, san-scrit,' because it's the sacred language
of the Hindus.”

“Is that it?” asked Gaston. “We didn't think of
that,” said Brade; but both looked encouraged, as if
they had been feeling in the right direction, after all.

“No: I believe it means `perfect,' or polished,' or
something of that sort, really,” said the Caput.

“That dishes our definition, sir, pretty well,” said
Gaston.

“I hope to see something more of you, in this line,
yet,” said the Rector: “as any thing turns up in your
lessons or in the lexicon, put it down, by all means.”

So here the philologists took their leave, and brought
away their papers. Once fairly out of hearing, they
stopped to consult.

“We weren't so bad, after all, were we?” said
Gaston. “Live and learn. I'm rather proud of that
`Sanscrit:' the Cap did something like it, that wa'n't
much better. I think we've come off pretty well for a
beginning.” And now three pairs of nimble feet were
skurrying downstairs.