“Don’t see now you can make Latin prose much more cock-eye than it is, but we’ll try,” said Beetle, transposing an _aliud_ and _Asiae_ from two sentences. “Let’s see! We’ll put that full-stop a little further on, and begin the sentence with the next capital. Hurrah! Here’s three lines that can move up all in a lump.” “‘One of those scientific rests for which this eminent huntsman is so justly celebrated.’” Stalky knew the Puffington run by heart. “Hold on! Here’s a _vol_--_voluntate quidnam_ all by itself,” said McTurk. “I’ll attend to her in a shake. _Quidnam_ goes after _Dolabella_.” “Good old Dolabella,” murmured Stalky. “Don’t break him. Vile prose Cicero wrote, didn’t he? He ought to be grateful for--” “Hullo!” said McTurk, over another forme. “What price a giddy ode? _Qui_--_quis_--oh, it’s _Quis multa gracilis_, o’ course.” “Bring it along. We’ve sugared the milk here,” said Stalky, after a few minutes’ zealous toil. “Never thrash your hounds unnecessarily.” “_Quis munditiis_? I swear that’s not bad,” began Beetle, plying the tweezers. “Don’t that interrogation look pretty? _Heu quoties fidem_! That sounds as if the chap were anxious an’ excited. _Cui flavam religas in rosa_--Whose flavor is relegated to a rose. _Mutatosque Deos flebit in antro_.” “Mute gods weepin’ in a cave,” suggested Stalky. “’Pon my Sam, Horace needs as much lookin’ after as--Tulke.” They edited him faithfully till it was too dark to see. * * * * * “‘Aha! _Elucescebat_, quoth our friend.’ Ulpian serves my need, does it? If King can make anything out of _that_, I’m a blue-eyed squatteroo,” said Beetle, as they slid out of the loft window into a back alley of old acquaintance and started on a three-mile trot to the College. But the revision of the classics had detained them too long. They halted, blown and breathless, in the furze at the back of the gasometer, the College lights twinkling below, ten minutes at least late for tea and lock-up. “It’s no good,” puffed McTurk. “Bet a bob Foxy is waiting for defaulters under the lamp by the Fives Court. It’s a nuisance, too, because the Head gave us long leave, and one doesn’t like to break it.” “‘Let me now from the bonded ware’ouse of my knowledge,’” began Stalky. “Oh, rot! Don’t Jorrock. Can we make a run for it?” snapped McTurk. “‘Bishops’ boots Mr. Radcliffe also condemned, an’ spoke ’ighly in favor of tops cleaned with champagne an’ abricot jam.’ Where’s that thing Cokey was twiddlin’ this afternoon?” They heard him groping in the wet, and presently beheld a great miracle. The lights of the Coastguard cottages near the sea went out; the brilliantly illuminated windows of the Golf-club disappeared, and were followed by the frontages of the two hotels. Scattered villas dulled, twinkled, and vanished. Last of all, the College lights died also. They were left in the pitchy darkness of a windy winter’s night.