I loaded the Mysticism panel.

She carefully considered her words:

"You just used a slingshot as a bridge to divert his attention from what he's good at to what he's not good at. That was a clever trick."

"But I want to ask, how long can this method be used?"

The slingshot metaphor covers the first declension without issue, but what about the third declension? What about verb conjugation? What about the subjunctive mood?

That's a good question. No wonder you graduated from a university in the capital.

The slingshot metaphor does indeed have its limits.

The deeper you go into Latin grammar, the more abstract it becomes, and it's impossible to use a slingshot as an analogy for everything.

"You're right, a slingshot is just a beginner's tool." Richard stood below the steps, almost at her eye level.

"But the initial hook is the most important. Boys this age have absolutely no interest in Latin because no one makes them feel that it has anything to do with them."

"The slingshot brought him into contact with the arpeggio table, and once he started to find the arpeggio table itself interesting, he could throw the slingshot away."

Charlotte seemed to understand something.

"I hope you're right." She extended her right hand.

Richard shook hands with her.

"You're welcome to come next Saturday at 10 a.m."

"OK."

It was almost noon when we left Dawn's house.

He quickened his pace, crossed the railway underpass, passed through the factory area, and jogged back to the main street.

The butcher at the north end was chopping something with the back of his knife, sending bone fragments flying everywhere.

Richard stopped in front of the butcher shop, staring at the various cut pieces of meat inside: pork shoulder, beef brisket, lamb leg, and several ribs.

The ribs were neatly arranged on the bottom tray, with a thin layer of fat still attached to the ribs, giving them a bright color.

"Young man, what would you like?" The boss looked up, with bits of meat still stuck to the back of his knife.

"How much are the spare ribs?"

"It depends on which type you want. Pork short ribs are cheaper, while pork chops are more expensive."

Richard glanced at the ribs, his gaze settling on a pork spare chop.

It weighs a little over two pounds, enough for a family of four to have one meal.

"Cut that piece into a whole strip."

The boss picked up the ribs and put them on the scale: "Two pounds and two ounces (two catties), I'll give you eight pence."

Richard took a shilling from the envelope and handed it over for change.

The shopkeeper took the money and bit it, a habit of the older generation, even though shillings are no longer pure silver.

The ribs were wrapped in two layers of oil paper, tied with a hemp rope, and handed to him.

Richard walked home with the ribs in his hand, his pace quickening slightly.

When I opened the door, my mother was washing dishes in the kitchen.

"You're back? How was it?"

"It's done."

Richard placed the oil paper package on the dining table.

Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and came over to untie the rope.

Once the oil paper is flipped open, the layer of fat on the pork ribs looks incredibly tempting.

"Spare ribs?" she asked, somewhat surprised.

"The Dawn family paid the trial lesson fee today, three shillings."

Richard took the remaining two shillings and change out of the envelope and neatly stacked them on the table.

"From now on, one hour each on Saturdays and Sundays, three shillings for one class period."

It costs about two and a half pounds a month, and there's a bonus if the student's grades improve.

Margaret's fingers lingered on the edge of the ribs for a moment before she turned to look at him.

"Three shillings and one lesson, that certainly deserves a proper celebration."

Meanwhile, Evelyn was soon drawn downstairs by the smell of ribs.

She was looking at fashion magazines in her room when suddenly her nose twitched twice.

Margaret brushed the ribs with a mixture of honey and salt and sprinkled them with chopped thyme.

That bottle of honey had been sitting on the top shelf in the kitchen for a long time.

Margaret usually watches it like it's a thief, but today she scrubbed the ribs twice.

Evelyn rushed downstairs.

She rushed into the kitchen and saw the row of golden pork ribs.

"What's going on?!"

"Your brother found a part-time job." The mother used a long-handled iron fork to flip the ribs over.

"As I said before, I'll be a tutor for someone."

"How much?"

"Two and a half pounds a month."

"Two and a half pounds?!"

Evelyn turned to look at Richard, her eyes wide like an owl's.

Where does the family that hired you as a tutor live?

"The Dawn family on Highfield Road has a twelve-year-old brother who is taking the public school entrance exam."

"Highfield Road..." Evelyn murmured the name of the place, a wealthy neighborhood she and her classmates would pass through when shopping.

"So, you're now a tutor hired by a wealthy family?"

"It's just tutoring, it's not as exaggerated as you say."

"Mmm-hmm," Evelyn responded, but she had already pressed herself against the fireplace, her eyes lingering on the ribs.

"Can we eat now?"

"Not yet." The mother poked at the charcoal fire. "Grill it for another fifteen minutes, so the outside is crispy and the inside is tender."

Evelyn's hand had already reached out unconsciously, but her mother gently tapped it with a pitchfork.

"Wait."

"But it's oozing oil..."

"The oil seepage means it's not ready yet."

"It smells fine now."

"Even if it's ready, we still have to wait until your dad comes back before we eat."

………………

On Sunday afternoon, Richard went to the firing range again.

He didn't tell his sister where he was going before he left this time, only saying that he was going out to take care of some things.

Evelyn straightened his cuffs and asked, "Latin again?"

He nodded, and his sister sighed and went back.

When I arrived at the shooting range and went inside, I found a different person behind the duty desk. He was older than the one from the previous week, and his hair was completely white.

Richard presented the letter of appointment, but the white-haired old man didn't even bother to look at it, only glancing at the official seal before waving him away.

"The firing range is being used by someone," the old man added.

Richard nodded and walked down the concrete stairs to the ground floor.

We heard gunshots before we even reached the bottom.

boom! boom! boom!

The intervals were very even, and the rhythm was as steady as a metronome.

As we entered the firing range, Old Bige was standing at the second firing position, firing his gun.

After the gunfire stopped, he turned around from his firing position and saw Richard.

"Oh, you've arrived."

His tone was as casual as when they parted last weekend, as if Richard had just gone to the restroom and come back.

"You said last week that you'd come again this week, but I didn't really take it seriously." Old Big opened the magazine and ejected the empty cartridge cases.

"Young people's promises are generally less than 30% kept."

"I'm in that 30%."

"I can tell."

Old Big put his gun on the partition and patted the gunpowder residue off his hands.

"Practice for a bit first? I'll show you then."

Richard took out the practice Webley he had used last week from the metal cabinet, signed the register, and collected a box of twenty-four rounds from the ammunition cabinet.

The loading action was much more skillful than last week.

He doesn't have a gun to touch at home, but every night before bed he would rehearse the entire process of loading, raising, aiming, and pulling the trigger several times in his room.

The first one was sent out.

The bullet impact point landed within the chest cavity area of ​​the target paper, slightly to the left, but the dispersion was much better than last week.

"Not bad." Old Big observed from the side: "Your wrist is steady, and you can handle the recoil."

"Still biased."

"That's normal. How many shots did you fire?"

"Twenty-five shots in total, including the fourteen shots last Tuesday and this one today. To achieve my level of accuracy, you'd need at least several hundred or even a thousand shots."

Richard adjusted his breathing rhythm and pushed the trigger backward with his index finger.

boom!

The second shot hit the upper right side of the chest.

boom!

The third shot finally landed near the midline of the chest.

"Okay." Old Big nodded.

"You have an advantage: you're good at breathing techniques. When you pull the trigger, you exhale halfway before firing, making you as steady as a post."

After firing twenty-four shots, Richard put down his gun and stretched his wrists.

Old Big glanced at the target paper, gave a noncommittal "hmm," and turned to take his copper kettle out of his toolbox.

The two sat down on the ammunition box, exactly the same way they had sat last week.

Old Big poured himself a glass of black tea mixed with rum, and then pulled two sandwiches out of the paper bag, this time with ham and mustard.

Old Big was the kind of person who couldn't stop talking; he'd be quiet for less than ten seconds before starting to chatter again.

"What did you do yesterday?"

"Go become a tutor."

"A private tutor? What kind of tutor?"

"Latin."

"Who should we teach?"

"There's a family on Highfield Road with a twelve-year-old child who's taking the public school entrance exam."

"Highfield Road..." Old Big whistled, "That's the most expensive street in the North End."

"Indeed, the hourly rate is quite good."

"He became a tutor in a wealthy family at a young age."

He clicked his tongue twice, somewhat wistfully.

Richard thought for a moment, then tentatively asked, "Old Big, how many years have you been in Bristol?"

"It's been almost fifteen years." The man counted on his fingers:

"When I was transferred from the capital, I hadn't gained weight yet; my waistline was only two-thirds of what it is now."

"Assigned from the capital?"

"It wasn't really an assignment; I applied for it myself."

Old Big took a sip of tea:

"The capital city is great, but the competition is too fierce. Someone with my mediocre skills wouldn't even get a taste of success there. The Northern Branch Office was short-staffed, so I volunteered for a transfer."

He clicked his tongue: "Bristol, well, the air quality is a bit poor and it's a bit cold in winter, but it's quiet."

The North District rarely encounters any cases that require serious investigation throughout the year; most of the time it's just routine autopsies and report writing.

"I occasionally come to the shooting range on weekends to fire a few shots; it's my form of entertainment."

He placed the tin cup on the ammunition box and asked, seemingly casually:

"You go to school at Greenwood?"

"right."

"Greenwood High School, the one in the North District?"

"That one."

Old Big's expression subtly changed.

"Greenwood..." He circled the word in his mouth.

"My senior sister mentioned it to me a while ago."

"Mrs. McNeil, have you heard of her?"

Richard's heart skipped a beat, but he remained outwardly calm.

Mrs. McNeil, the medium the Warrens invite to their home around the annual exorcism day.

"I've never had any direct contact with them," he said carefully, "but I've heard classmates mention this name."

Old Big glanced at him.

His small eyes, nestled in the wrinkles of his round face, narrowed, making him look completely different from his usual carefree self.