“Snarl away, my friend,” said Bulstrode jovially, seating himself, with awkward comfort, on the grass. “I lay I’ll make you change your tune. Do you know--” Bulstrode’s pronunciation was not equal to the music of his voice, and he said “D’ye know.” “D’ye know, boy, that the two great powers to charm women and dogs are the eye and the voice? Now, as for my eyes--Lord, I never had any charm in ’em, and the life I’ve led wasn’t calculated to give ’em any. But see if that damned dog doesn’t stop his growling when I give him some first-class Latin.” Bulstrode took the book and began to read sonorously one of the longer odes. Lewis, whose black eyes were wonderfully expressive, was laughing to himself, the more so when, as Bulstrode rolled out the lines of rhythmic beauty, old Service ceased his growling and appeared to be listening gravely. Bulstrode put out his hand and drew the dog toward him, and in a little while Service was resting his head on Bulstrode’s knee and blinking placidly and solemnly into his face. “There you have it!” cried Bulstrode, slapping the book together. “Let me tell you, Lewis, in the old days, when my face was fresh and fair, I used to walk up and down the river bank at Cambridge, reciting these odes to a gang of undergraduates, and sometimes there’d be a don on the outskirts of the crowd. Don’t know what a don is? Well, I’ll tell you some day. And the reason my Latin and Greek are so much better than my English is because I learned my English from the vulgar. But my Latin and Greek I learned from the very finest old Latin and Greek gentlemen that ever were--the cream of the company, boy; and that and my voice are about the only decent things left about me.” “And your philosophy,” said Lewis, hesitating--“that great book you’re helping Mr. Skelton on.” “Philosophy--fudge!” cried Bulstrode carelessly. “There’s Skelton now, shut up in that musty library yonder”--jerking his thumb toward the Deerchase house--“grinding away at his system of philosophy; and here am I, the true philosopher, enjoying this infernally glorious harvest and these picturesque black people, that I never can get used to, no matter how long I live in this odd country. D’ye know what Kant says? Of course you don’t; so I’ll tell you. He says that two men, like _him_ over yonder”--Bulstrode jerked his thumb again over his shoulder--“and your humble servant, engaged in pursuing abstract philosophy, are like two idiots who want a drink of milk; so one milks a post, while the other holds a sieve. That’s philosophy, my dear boy.” This puzzled Lewis very much, who was nevertheless accustomed to hearing Bulstrode pooh-poohing philosophy, while Mr. Skelton always uttered the word reverently.