The Horace Ode next morning ran well; and King was content. Then, in full feather, he sailed round the firmament at large, and, somehow, apropos to something or other, used the word “della Cruscan”--“if any of you have the faintest idea of its origin.” Some one hadn’t caught it correctly; which gave Beetle just time to whisper “Bran--an’ mills,” to Howell, who said promptly: “Hasn’t it somethin’ to do with mills--an’ bran, sir?” King cast himself into poses of stricken wonder. “Oddly enough,” said he, “it has.” They were then told a great deal about some silly Italian Academy of Letters which borrowed its office furniture from the equipment of mediæval flour-mills. And: “How has our Ap-Howell come by his knowledge?” Howell, being, indeed, Welsh, thought that it might have been something he had read in the holidays. King openly purred over him. “If that had been _me_,” Beetle observed while they were toying with sardines between lessons, “he’d ha’ dropped on me for showin’-off.” “See what we’re savin’ you from,” Stalky answered. “I’m playin’ Johnson, ’member, this afternoon.” That, too, came cleanly off the bat; and King was gratified by this interest in the Doctor’s studies. But Stalky hadn’t a ghost of a notion how he had come by the fact. “Why didn’t you say your father told you?” Beetle asked at tea. “My-y Lord! Have you ever seen the guv’nor?” Stalky collapsed shrieking among the piles of bread and butter. “Well, look here. Taffy goes in to-morrow about those drinkin’ horns an’ Tom-a-Bedlams. You cut up to the library after tea, Beetle. You know what King’s English papers are like. Look out useful stuff for answers an’ we’ll divvy at prep.” At prep, then, Beetle, loaded with assorted curiosities, made his forecast. He argued that there were bound to be a good many “what-do-you-know-abouts” those infernal Augustans. Pope was generally a separate item; but the odds were that Swift, Addison, Steele, Johnson, and Goldsmith would be lumped under one head. Dryden was possible, too, though rather outside the Epoch. “Dryden. Oh! ‘Glorious John!’ ’Know _that_ much, anyhow,” Stalky vaunted. “Then lug in Claude Halcro in the _Pirate_,” Beetle advised. “He’s always sayin’ ‘Glorious John.’ King’s a hog on Scott, too.” “No-o. I don’t read Scott. You take this Hell Crow chap, Taffy.” “Right. What about Addison, Beetle?” Howell asked. “’Drank like a giddy fish.” “We all know that,” chorused the gentle children. “He said, ‘See how a Christian can die’; an’ he hadn’t any conversation, ’cause some one or other----” “Guessin’ again, _as_ usual,” McTurk sneered. “Who?” “’Cynical man called Mandeville--said he was a silent parson in a tie-wig.” “Right-ho! I’ll take the silent parson with wig and ’purtenances. Taffy can have the dyin’ Christian,” Stalky decided. Howell nodded, and resumed: “What about Swift, Beetle?”