He couldn't get the ghost out of his head, nor the slovenly Latin prose of the old Templeton motto- writer.
"Qui in se dominatur." What Latin! Dick pulled down Cresswell's dictionary and looked up "se" and "dominatur," and wished he had the fellow there to tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself.

Why, it might mean "who is ruled by his inside!" Perhaps it did mean that.
But no, Dick couldn't get out of the hobble he was in.

He tried every way, but the right way.

He denounced the ghost, he denounced Heathcote, he denounced the Latin grammar, but they always sent him back to where he started; until, finally, in sheer desperation, he had to denounce himself.
He was just beginning this congenial occupation, in as comfortable an attitude as he could, in Cresswell's easy-chair, when the study door opened, and Braider entered.
"Hallo! You're here, are you ?" said that youth.

"Why ever didn't you come before?
I told you to be in the Quad, and I'd call for you; didn't I?
You've got in a nice mess!" Here was another candid friend going to tell him he'd got into a mess! "What mess?
Who with ?" "Why, with the Club.