The master rose to the bait.
"Mean? Bless my soul, what a question! Not know? Here, tell him, somebody—Martin, Levesley, Smith, Forbes, next, next, next!"
Various futile translations were offered, and Mr. Bradshaw stormed again.
"Do you fellows do anything in the French hour except eat bananas?" he inquired. (Deferential sniggers.) "What are French lessons but an excuse for idleness? Really, I must ask the Head—"
They let him run on, while the golden moments slipped by. As soon as he showed signs of flagging, Linklater, seeing that it still wanted eight minutes to the hour, repeated—
"But what does it mean, sir?"
"Mean, you insufferable dolt! It means—itmeans—er, 'energy,' 'verve,' 'dash'—yes, that's it! 'dash'!"
Linklater held up a respectful hand.
"I said 'dash!' sir, the moment
