tmaster's prodigy could gratify Edward John by giving him a Latin
poser. Only for a moment did he hesitate, however, and recovering his
self-confidence, Mr. Needham continued brazenly:

"But, after all, one does not master Latin so soon as that. Henry, I am
afraid, will still have much to learn of the classic tongue."

"But won't you try me, sir?" blurted out the youthful subject of
discussion. "I should really like to be tested."

"Come now, do, Mr. Needham," urged the postmaster teasingly, his face
shining with pleasure in delighted anticipation of the coming battle of
wits. "Tackle 'im on Virgil; tackle 'im on Virgil. Put 'im through 'is
paces, do, and let's see what's in the led."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Mr. Charles; but I am pressed
this morning, and must not delay further. Some other day, perhaps, I
shall see how he stands in the classics, but really I must be off. Good
morning, Mr. Charles; good morning, Henry!"

So saying, the vicar beat a retreat, and as Edward John watched the
breeze-blown frock-coat and the twinkling calipers disappear eastward,
he cherished the suspicion that the Rev. Godfrey Needham really did not
know so much of Latin after all. Nor did the shrewd Mr. Charles arrive
at a wrong conclusion. The dear old vicar's reputation as a Latinist
rested almost entirely on the fact that it was his custom when showing a
visitor through the Parish Church of Hampton Bagot to point to several
memorials in the chancel, and after asking if the visitor knew Latin, to
glibly recite the inscriptions in that tongue, and follow this up by
condescending to give their English equivalents. It was a harmless
vanity, and was typical of many little corners in the quaint character
of this good man.

Miffin had now accomplished the elaborate ceremony of opening his
inefficient shop, and sniffing contemptuously as he retired indoors at
the presumptuous Mr. Charles, whose encounter with the vicar he had
carefully overheard, he had the satisfaction of seeing the portly form
of Edward John disappear inside the Post Office, presumably for the
purpose of doing a little business.

"And now, 'Enry," said the proud parent, still chuckling at the obvious
retreat of the vicar, "it is time for school, my boy. Remember, _tempus
fugits_. Yes, my word, _tempus_ do _fugit_."

Thus admonished, the rising hope of the postmaster shouldered his
satchel and set out schoolward.

Henry Charles was in almost every sen