few Greek words which he had just cribbed, would proceed somewhat thus
Kai mataroi galaban, kai tene elaphoio paraksas
Megar thene melapou rodivios theutar epaitas;
Tene perimousan ika, felaroldios ouket igoion
Meeks adiperan efee kai kikety rolopoloios.
Whilst this was going on, Sleath would sit still upon his chair, soothed by the majestic stream of Homeric sound, and closing his eyes, and tapping his nose with his gold spectacles, would repeat the real words to himself. Had Codd Major hesitated for a moment, so as to call the old Doctor’s attention to the enormous nonsense he was talking, he was lost. But he always proceeded with the most imperturbable gravity, never pausing for a word, and going through his work in a matter of fact way which put all idea of jocularity out of the question. The joke, however, used generally to end in serious discomfort to his class-fellows, for do what we would we were convulsed with laughter, whilst not a muscle of his countenance changed. The Doctor would rouse himself from his Homeric swoon at last; and looking round like an angry lion set us a fearful imposition all round—saving to the real culprit; whilst Codd Major was informed, that he was “a good boy, a good boy, a very good boy, indeed!” So much for justice.
“Coach-Tree.” (Page 101.)
