“Now boys,” said Captain Tubb to his class, which was composed of the senior male scholars, including Tom Metters, the rascal who had put the inscriptions in the mouths of Moses and Aaron. “Now boys, attention. The cradle and Polly Woodley are nothing to you. We will proceed with what we were about.” “Please, sir,” said Tom Metters, thrusting forth his hand as a semaphore, “what do Quinquagesima, Septuagesima and the lot of they rummy names mean?” “Rummy,” reproved Captain Tubb, “is an improper term to employ. Say, remarkable. Quinquagesima”—he stroked his moustache, then brightened—“it is the name of a Sunday.” “I know, sir, but why is it so called?” “Why are _you_ called Tom Metters?” asked the captain as a feeble effort to turn the tables. “I be called Tom after my uncle, and Metters is my father’s name—but Quinquagesima?” “Quin-qua-gess-im-a!” mused the Captain, and looked furtively towards my lady for help, but she was engrossed in teaching her class what books were not to be employed for the establishment of doctrine, and did not notice the appeal. “Yes, sir,” persisted Metters, holding him as a ferret holds the throat of a rabbit, “Quinquagesima.” “I think,” said Tubb eagerly, “we were engaged on David’s mighty men. Go on with the mighty men.” “But, please sir, I _do_ want to know about Quinquagesima, cruel bad.” “Quin-qua-gess-ima,” sighed Capt. Tubb, nibbling the ends of his beard; then again in a lower sigh, “Quin-qua-gess-ima?” He looked at Arminell for enlightenment, but in vain. She was listening amused and scornful. “Gessima—gessima!” said Mr Tubb; then falteringly: “It’s a sort of creeper, over veranders.” He saw a flash in Arminell’s eye, and took it as encouragement. Then, with confidence he advanced. “Yes, Metters, it means that this is the Sunday or week whereabouts the yaller jessamine—or in Latin, gessima—do begin to bloom.” “Thank you, sir—and Septuagesima?” “That,” answered the captain with great promptitude, “that is when the white ’un flowers.” “But, sir, there’s another Sunday collick, Sexagesima. There’s no red or blue jessamine, be there?” “Red, or blue!” The teacher looked hopelessly at Arminell, who with compressed lips observed him and shook her head. “Sex—sex—sex,” repeated Mr. Tubb, with his mouth full of beard, “always means females. That means the female jessamine.” “Be there any, sir? There’s a petticoat narcissus, and a lady’s smock, and a marygold, but I never heard of a she-jessamine.” “There are none here,” answered Tubb, “but in the Holy Land—lots.” “Really, Arminell,” said Lady Lamerton, “your class is doing nothing but play and disturb mine.” “I am on the stool of the learner,” sneered the girl. At that moment, through the ceiling, or rather boards above, dropped a black-handled kitchen fork within a hair’s breadth of Arminell’s head. She drew back, startled.