"Ah! Come, not the day of the month—but the month, eh?"
Jamie could not answer.
"Come now," said the red-headed levy man, stretching his legs before him, legs vested in white trousers, strapped down tight. "Come now, my splendid specimen of humanity! In which quarter of the year? Between sickle and scythe, eh?" He waited, and receiving no answer, pulled out a pocket-book and made a note, after having first wetted the end of his pencil. "Don't know when he was born. What do you say to that, Jukes? Will you take your turn?"
The man with an inflamed face was gradually becoming purple, as he leaned forward on his stick, and said, "Humph! a Latin grammar. Propria quæ maribus. I remember it, but it was a long time ago I learned it. Now, whipper-snapper! How do you get on? Propria quæ maribus—Go on." He waited. Jamie looked at him in astonishment. "Come! Tribu—" again he waited. "Come! Tribuntur mascula dicas. Go on." Again a pause. Then with an impatient growl. "Ut sunt divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo. This will never do. Go on with the Scaramouch, Vokins. I'll make my annotations."
"He's too hard on my little chap, aint he?" asked the thin man in ducks. "We won't be done. We are not old enough——"
"He is but eighteen," said Judith.
"He is but eighteen," repeated the red-headed man. "Of course he has not got so far as that, but musa, musæ."
Jamie turned sulky.
"Not musa, musæ—and eighteen years! Jukes, this is serious, Jukes; eh, Jukes?"
"Now look here, you fellows," said Scantlebray, senior. "You are too exacting. It's holiday time, ain't it, Orphing? We won't be put upon, not we. We'll sport, and frolic, and be joyful. Look here, Scanty, old man, take the slate and draw a pictur' to my describing. Now then, Jamie, look at him and hearken to me. He's the funniest old man that ever was, and he'll surprise you. Are you ready, Scanty?" Mr. Obadiah drew the slate before him, and signed with the pencil to Jamie to observe him. The boy was quite ready to see him draw.
