"Livy and Caesar, and stuff like that, but mainly Virgil."

"Then it's very, very curious," she whispered emphatically.

No doubt yokel blood ought not to run like wine under the mighty pulse of
Virgil, and I sourly asked, "What's curious, madam? Old Bloggs has nothing
to teach except Latin, and I happened to take to it. Why curious?"

"Really, Master Wheatman, not curious? Here we are in a narrow yard at
the foot of a high wall. I'm perfectly certain that within five minutes I
shall be whisked over to the other side. And you got that out of Virgil?"

"Straight out of Virgil, madam. Stafford was our Troy, and this the wall
thereof. I've got in and out thousands of times."

She peered comically around the dark playground and said gaily, "I see no
wooden horse. There should be one, I know. Master Dryden says so, and he
knows all about Virgil."

"Poof," said I. "If old Bloggs heard you, he'd tingle to thrash you black
and blue."

"He couldn't now I've got my breath again," she laughed.

"I'm glad of that. Let me explain. Here is a ladder of notches in the
wall, left and right alternately. Feel for them." She did so, and I went
on: "They are roughly three feet apart on each side. I'll climb up first
and assist you up the last few. Your skirts will trouble you, I fear."

"Not much, for I'll turn them up." She promptly did so, and fastened the