The Varmint Part 18

"John Humperd.i.n.k Stover," said d.i.n.k with difficulty.

"Ah, yes, Stover: the name is familiar--very familiar," said The Roman, with a twitch to his lip and a sudden jump of the eyebrow.

"Haven't we met before?"

d.i.n.k, suffocating, nodded. The cla.s.s, at a loss, turned from one to the other, watching for the cue.

"Well, Stover, come a little nearer. Take the seat between Stone and Straus. Straus will be better able to take his little morning nap. A little embarra.s.sed, Stover? Dear me! I shouldn't have thought that of you. Sit down now and--try to put a little ginger into the cla.s.s, Stover."

d.i.n.k looked down and blushed until it seemed as though his hair would catch on fire. The cla.s.s, perceiving only that there was a point for laughter, burst into roars.

"There--there," said The Roman, stilling the storm with one finger.

"Just a little joke between us two; just a little confidential joke. Now for a bee-ootiful recitation. Splendid spring weather--yesterday was a cut; of course you all took the hour to study conscientiously--eager for knowledge. Fifth and sixth rows go to the board."

While The Roman's modulated accents doled out conjugations and declensions Stover sat, without a thought in his head, his hands locked, staring out at the green and yellow necktie that rose on Pebble Stone's collar.

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" he said at last. "Dished! Spinked! He'll flunk me every day. I certainly am in wrong!"

He raised his eyes at the enthroned Natural Enemy and mentally threw down the gage of battle with a hopeless, despairing feeling of the three years' daily conflict that was to come. For, of course, now there could be no question of The Roman's mortal and unsparing enmity.

But after the first paralyzing shock d.i.n.k recovered himself. It was war, but the war he loved--the war of wits.

The Roman, having flunked a dozen by this time, had Channing, the Coffee-colored Angel, on his feet, on delicate matters of syntax.

"Top of page, third word, Channing--gerund or gerundive?" said The Roman.

"Gerund, sir."

"Too bad!" said The Roman musically, and on a lower octave repeated: "Too bad! Third line, fifth word--gerund or gerundive?"

"Gerund, sir," said the Coffee-colored Angel with more conviction.

"No luck, Channing, no luck. Tenth line, last word--gerund, Channing, or gerundive?"

"Gerund-ive," said the Coffee-colored Angel hesitatingly.

"Poor Channing, he didn't stick to his system. The laws of probability, Channing----"

"I meant gerund," said the Coffee-colored Angel hastily.

"Dear me! Really, Channing?"

"Yes, sir."

"Positive?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"It _was_ the gerundive, Channing."

The Coffee-colored Angel abruptly sat down.

"Don't want to speculate any more, Channing?"

"No, sir."

"No feeling of confidence--no luck to-day? Try the gerundive to-morrow."

The discouraged began to return from the boards, having writ in water.

The Roman, without malice, pa.s.sed over the rows and, from flunking them individually, mowed them down in sections.

"Anything from the Davis House to-day? No, no? Anything from the Rouse House combination? Nothing at all? Anything from the Jackson twins?

Alas! How about the D's this morning? Davis, Dark, Denton, Deer, d.i.c.kson, nothing from the D's. Let's try the F's. Farr, Fenton, Foster, Francis, Finch? Nothing from the F's--nothing from the D F's!

Nothing at all?"

d.i.n.k burst into laughter, and laughed alone. The Roman stopped. Every one looked surprised.

"Ah, Stover has been coached--well coached," said The Roman. "But, Stover, this is not the place to laugh. The D F's are not a joke; they are painful, every day facts. Well, well, it has been a beautiful recitation in the review--not exceptional, not exceptional at all. Has any one the advance? Don't all rise at once. Strange what trying weather it is--too sunny, not enough rain--every one rises exhausted.

Will Macnooder kindly lead the ma.s.sacre?"

Macnooder disdained to rise; one or two faltered and tripped along for brief s.p.a.ces, and then sat down. The Roman, counting his dead, hesitated and called:

"Stover."

"Me, sir?" said d.i.n.k, too astonished to rise. "Why, I'm unprepared, sir."

"Unprepared?" said The Roman with a wicked smile. "I never thought you would be unprepared, Stover."

The smile decided Stover.

"I'll try, sir," he said.

"Very kind of you, Stover."

d.i.n.k rose slowly, put the book on his desk, tightened his belt, b.u.t.toned his coat and took up the prosy records of Caesar. Pebble Stone showed him the place. He straightened up and, glancing at the first line, saw:

"_Ubi eo ventum est, Caesar initio orationis_ ..."

"Caesar," began d.i.n.k in a firm voice.

"Excellent!" said The Roman.

"Caesar, wherever the wind blew him, initiated the orators ..." d.i.n.k continued smoothly, after a rapid glance.

The Roman, from a listless att.i.tude, gripped the desk, pivoted clear on one leg of his chair, staring at the familiar text as though it had suddenly taken on life and begun to crawl about the page.

d.i.n.k, resolved not to be bested, gravely and fluently continued to glide on, without pause or hitch, turning syllables into words, building sentences wherever he met an acquaintance. On and on he went, glib and eloquent, weaving out of the tangled text a picture that gradually, freeing itself from the early restraints, painted in vivid detail a spirited conference between Caesar and the German envoys. The cla.s.s, amazed, resorted to their books; many of the unprepared, quite convinced, stared at him as though a new rival to the high markers had suddenly appeared.

The Roman, fascinated, never quitted the text, marveling as the tale ran on, leaping adverbs and conjunctions, avoiding whole phrases, undismayed by the rise of sudden, hostile nouns, impressing into service whatever suited it, corrupting or beating down all obstacles.

Once or twice he twitched spasmodically, twice he switched the leg of his chair, murmuring all the while to himself. Finally he rose and, slowly approaching to where Stover stood, glanced incredulously at his book.