as we might have done, Joe and I threw together—um—er—ah conjunctim so to speak," and Peaches managed to keep a straight face even while struggling to find the right Latin word. "Yes, we threw conjunctim—together—and we both wanted to see who could do the best—er—supero—you know, and—er we—well, it was an accident—casus eventus. We are awfully sorry, and—"
Professor Rodd gave an audible sniff, but there was a marked softening of the hard lines about his face. He was an enthusiastic Latin scholar, and the trial of his life was to know that most of his pupils hated the study—indeed as many boys do. So when the teacher found one who took the trouble in ordinary conversation to use a few Latin words, or phrases, the professor was correspondingly pleased. Peaches knew this.
"It was a casus eventus—an accident," the fair-cheeked lad repeated, very proud of his ability in the dead language.
"We are very sorry," put in Joe, "and I'll pay for having your hat ironed."
"We threw in conjunctim," murmured Peaches.
"Ha! A very good attempt at the Latin—at least some of the words are," admitted Professor Rodd. "They do credit to your studying, Lant-
