The gross injustice of being asked to translate it, converted Beetle into a young Christian martyr, till King buried his nose in his handkerchief again. 'I think they've broken another gas-bottle next door, sir,' said Howell. 'They're always doing it.' The Form coughed as more chlorine came in. 'Well, I suppose we must be patient with the Modern Side,' said King. 'But it is almost insupportable for this Side. Vernon, what are you grinning at?' Vernon's mind had returned to him glowing and inspired. He chuckled as he underlined his Horace. 'It appears to amuse you,' said King. 'Let us participate. What is it?' 'The last two lines of the Tenth Ode, in this book, sir,' was Vernon's amazing reply. '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.'