FOOTNOTES:

"Not thankful when it pleaseth me,As if Thy blessings had spare days:But such a heart whose pulse may be—Thy praise."

Desmond stared at the graceful writing long after the train had passed Totton. "Am I ungrateful?" he asked himself. "Not to them," he muttered; "surely not to them." He recalled what Warde had said about ingratitude being the unpardonable sin. Ah! it was loathsome, ingratitude! And much had been given to him. How much? For the first time he made, so to speak, an inventory of what he had received—his innumerable blessings.What had he given in return?And now the fine handwriting seemed blurred; he saw it through tears which he ought to have shed. "Oh, my God," he murmured, "amI ungrateful?" The question bit deeper into his mind, sinking from there into his soul.

When the School reassembled, a curious incident occurred. John happened to be going up the fine flight of steps that leads to the Old Schools. He was carrying some books and papers. Scaife, running down the steps, charged into him. By great good fortune, no damage was done except to a nicely-bound Sophocles. John, however, felt assured that Scaife had deliberately intended to knock him down, seized, possibly, by an ecstasy of blind rage not uncommon with him. Scaife smiled derisively, and said—

"A thousand apologies, Verney."

"Oneis enough," John replied, "if it is sincere."

They eyed each other steadily. John read a furious challenge in Scaife's bold eyes—more, a menace, the threatening frown of power thwarted. Scaife seemed to expand, to fill the horizon, to blot out the glad sunshine. Once again the curious certainty gripped the younger that Scaife was indeed the personification of evil, the more malefic because it stalked abroad masked. For Scaife had outlived his reputation as a breaker of the law. Since that terrible experience in the Fourth Form Room, he had paid tithe of mint and cummin. As a Sixth Form boy he upheld authority, laughing the while in his sleeve. He knew, of course, that one mistake, one slip, would be fatal. And he prided himself on not making mistakes. He gambled, but not with boys; he drank, not with boys; he denied his body nothing it craved; but he never forgot that expulsion from Harrow meant the loss of a commission in a smart cavalry regiment. When it was intimated to him that the Guards did not want his father's son, he laughed bitterly, and swore to himself that he would show the stuck-up snobs what a soldier they had turned away. A soldier he fully intended to be—a dashing cavalry leader, if the Fates were kind. His luck would stand by him; if not—why—what was life without luck? He had never been a reader, buthe read now the lives of soldiers. Murat, Uxbridge, Cardigan, Hodson, were his heroes. Talking of their achievements, he inflamed his own mind and Desmond's.

The pleasant summer days passed. May melted into June. And each Sunday John and Desmond walked to the Haunted House, ascended the tower, and talked. Scaife was leaving at the end of the summer. Desmond was staying on for the winter term; then John would have him entirely to himself. This thought illumined dark hours, when he saw his friend whirled away by Scaife, transported, as it were, by the irresistible power of the man of action. That nothing should be wanting to that trebly-fortunate youth, he had helped to win the Public Schools' Racquets Championship. The Manor was now the crack house—cock-house at racquets and football, certain to be cock-house at cricket. And Scaife got most of the credit, not Warde, who smiled more than ever, and talked continually of Balliol Scholarships. He never bragged of victories past.

Meantime, John was devoting all energies to the competition for the Prize Essay. The Head Master had propounded as theme: "The History and Influence of Parliamentary Oratory." Bit by bit, John read or declaimed it to Desmond. Then, according to custom, Desmond copied it out for his friend. Signed "Spero Infestis," with a sealed envelope containing John's name inside and the motto outside, the MS. was placed in the Head Master's letter-box. John, cooling rapidly after the fever of composition, condemned his stuff as hopelessly bad; Cæsar went about telling everybody that Jonathan would win easily, "with a bit to spare." John did win, but that proved to be the least part of his triumph. The Essay had to be declaimed upon Speech Day. Once more John experienced the pangs that had twisted him at the concert, long ago, when he had sung to the Nation's hero. And as before, he began weakly. Then, the fire seizing him, self-consciousness was exorcised by feeling, and forgetful of the hundreds of faces about him, he burst into genuine oratory. Thrilled himself, he thrilledothers. His voice faltered again, but with an emotion that found an echo in the hearts of his audience; his hand shook, feeling the pulse of old and young in front of him. Dominated, swept away by his theme, he dominated others. When he finished, in the silence that preceded the roar of applause, he knew that he had triumphed, for he saw Desmond's glowing countenance, radiant with pleasure, transfigured by amazement and admiration. Next day a great newspaper hailed the Harrow boy as one destined to delight and to lead, perhaps, an all-conquering party in the House of Commons. And yet, warmed to the core by this praise, John counted it as nothing compared with his mother's smile and Desmond's fervent grip.

Fortune, however, comes to no man—or boy—with both hands full. Immediately after Speech Day, John's bubble of pride and happiness was pricked by Scaife. Midsummer madness seized the Demon. One may conceive that the innate recklessness of his nature, suppressed by an iron will, and smouldering throughout many months, burst at last into flame. Desmond told John that the Demon had spent a riotous night in town. He had slipped out of the Manor after prayers, had driven up to a certain club in Regent Street, returned in time for first school, fresh as paint—so Desmond said—and then, not content with such an achievement, must needs brag of it to Desmond.

"And if he's nailed, Eton wins," concluded Desmond. "I've told you, because together we must put a stop to such larks."

John slightly raised his thick eyebrows. It was curious that Cæsar always chose to ignore the hatred which he must have known to exist between his two friends. Or did he fatuously believe that, because John exercised an influence over himself, the same influence would or could be exercised over Scaife?

"We?" said John.

"I've tried and failed. But together, I say——"

"I shan't interfere, Cæsar."

"Jonathan, you must."

"It would be a fool's errand."

"We three have gone up the School together. You have never been fair to Scaife. I tell you he's sound at core. Why, after he was swished——"

Desmond told John what had passed; John shook his head. He could understand better than any one else why Scaife had broken down.

"He has splendid ambitions," pursued Desmond. "He's going to be a great soldier, you see. He thinks of nothing else. You never have liked him, but because of that I thought you would do what you could."

The disappointment and chagrin in his voice shook John's resolution.

"To please you, I'll try."

And accordingly the absurd experiment was made. Afterwards, John asked himself a thousand times why he had not foreseen the inevitable result. But the explanation is almost too simple to be recorded: he wished to convince a friend that he would attempt anything to prove his friendship.

That night they went together to Scaife's room. The second-best room in the Manor, situated upon the first floor, it overlooked the back of the garden, where there was a tangled thicket of laurustinus and rhododendron. Scaife had spent much money in making this room as comfortable as possible. It had the appearance of a man's room, and presented all the characteristics of the man who lived in it. Everything connected with Scaife's triumphal march through the School was preserved. On the walls were his caps, fezes, and cups. You could hardly see the paper for the framed photographs of Scaife and his fellow "bloods." Scaife as cricketer, Scaife as football-player, Scaife as racquet-player and athlete, stared boldly and triumphantly at you. He had a fine desk covered with massive silver ornaments. Upon this, as upon everything else in the room, was the hall-mark of the successful man of business.The papers, the pens and pencils, the filed bills and letters, the books of reference, spoke eloquently of a mind that used order as a means to a definite end. All his books were well bound. His boots were on trees. His racquets were in their press. Had you opened his chest of drawers, you would have found his clothes in perfect condition. Obviously, to an observant eye, the owner of this room gave his mind to details, because he realized that on details hang great and successful enterprises.

Scaife stared at John, but welcomed him civilly enough. Cricket, of course, explained this unexpected visit. As Desmond blurted out what was in his mind, Scaife frowned; then he laughed unpleasantly.

"And so I told Jonathan," concluded Desmond.

"So you told Jonathan," repeated Scaife. "Are you in the habit of telling Jonathan,"—the derisive inflection as he pronounced the name warned John at least that he had much better have stayed away—"things which concern others and which don't concern him?"

"If you're going to take it like that——"

"Keep cool, Cæsar. I'll admit that you mean well. I should like to hear what Verney has to say."

At that John spoke—haltingly. Fluent speech upon any subject very dear to him had always been difficult. He could talk glibly enough about ordinary topics; his sense of humour, his retentive memory, made him welcome even in the critical society of Eaton Square, but you know him as a creature of unplumbed reserves. The matter in hand was so vital that he could not touch it with firm hands or voice. He spoke at his worst, and he knew it; concluding an incoherent and slightly inarticulate recital of the reasons which ought to keep Scaife in his house at night with a lame "Two heads ought to prevail against one."

Scaife showed his fine teeth. "You think that? Your head and Cæsar's against mine?"

The challenge revealed itself in the derisive, sneering tone.

John shrugged his shoulders and rose. "I have blundered; I am sorry."

"Hold hard," said Scaife. He read censure upon Desmond's ingenuous countenance. Then his temper whipped him to a furious resentment against John, as an enemy who had turned the tables with good breeding; who had gained, indeed, a victory against odds. Scaife drew in his breath; his brows met in a frown. "You have not blundered; and you are not sorry," he said deliberately. "I'm not a fool, Verney; but perhaps I have underrated your ability. You're as clever as they make 'em. You knew well enough that you were the last person in the world to lead me in a string; you knew that, I say, and yet you come here to pose as the righteous youth, doing his duty—eh?—against odds, and accepting credit for the same from Cæsar. Why, it's plain to me as the nose upon your face that in your heart you would like me to be sacked."

Desmond interrupted. "You are mad, Demon. Take that back; take it back!"

"Ask him," said Scaife. "He hates me, and common decency ought to have kept him out of this room. But he's not a liar. Ask him. Put it your own way. Soften it, make pap of it, if you like, but get an answer."

"Jonathan, it is not true, is it? You don't like Scaife; but you would be sorry, very sorry, to see him—sacked."

"I'm glad you've not funked it," said Scaife. "You've put it squarely. Let him answer it as squarely."

John was white to the lips, white and trembling; despicable in his own eyes, how much more despicable, therefore, in the eyes of his friend, whose passionate faith in him was about to be scorched and shrivelled.

Scaife began to laugh.

"For God's sake, don't laugh!" said Desmond. "Jonathan, I know you are too proud to defend yourself against such an abominable charge."

"He's not a liar," said Scaife.

"It's true," said John, in a strangled voice.

"You have wished that he might be sacked?"

"Yes."

John met Desmond's indignant eyes with an expression which the other was too impetuous, too inexperienced to interpret. Into that look of passionate reproach he flung all that must be left unsaid, all that Scaife could read as easily as if it were scored in letters of flame. Because, in his modesty and humility, he had ever reckoned that Scaife would prevail against himself—because, with unerring instinct, he had apprehended, as few boys could apprehend, the issues involved, he had desired, fervently desired, that Scaife should be swept from Cæsar's path. But this he could not plead as an excuse to his friend; and Scaife had known that, and had used his knowledge with fiendish success. John lowered his eyes and walked from the room.

When he met Desmond again, nothing was said on either side. John told himself that he would speak, if Desmond spoke first. But evidently Desmond had determined already the nature of their future relations. They no longer shared No. 7, John being in the Upper Sixth with a room to himself, but they still "found" together. To separate would mean a public scandal from which each shrank in horror. No; let them meet at meals as before till the end of the term. Indeed, so little change was made in their previous intercourse, that John began to hope that Cæsar would walk with him as usual upon the following Sunday. And if he did—if he did, John felt that he would speak. On the top of the tower, looking towards the Spire, alone with his friend, exalted above the thorns and brambles of the wilderness, words would come to him.

But on the following Sunday Desmond walked with Scaife.

FOOTNOTES:[34]Of these, the Park, now a boarding-house, was a characteristic specimen. It belonged to Lord Northwick, Lord of the Manor of Harrow.[35]In the thirties Harrow boys played "Jack o' Lantern," or nocturnal Hare and Hounds. They used to attend Kingsbury Races and Pinner Fair. Lord Alexander Russell, when he was a boy at the Grove, kept a pack of beagles at the foot of the Hill.

[34]Of these, the Park, now a boarding-house, was a characteristic specimen. It belonged to Lord Northwick, Lord of the Manor of Harrow.

[35]In the thirties Harrow boys played "Jack o' Lantern," or nocturnal Hare and Hounds. They used to attend Kingsbury Races and Pinner Fair. Lord Alexander Russell, when he was a boy at the Grove, kept a pack of beagles at the foot of the Hill.

"There we sat in the circle vast,Hard by the tents, from noon,And looked as the day went slowly pastAnd the runs came all too soon;And never, I think, in the years gone by,Since cricketer first went in,Did the dying so refuse to die,Or the winning so hardly win."

"My dearJonathan, I'm delighted to see you. You know my father, I think?" It was the Caterpillar that spoke.

John shook hands with Colonel Egerton.

The three were standing in the Members' Enclosure at Lord's. The Caterpillar, gorgeous in frock-coat, with three corn-flowers[36]in the lapel of it, was about as great a buck as his sire, quite as conspicuous, and, seemingly, as cool. It happened to be a blazing hot day, but heat seldom affected Colonel Egerton.

"By Jove," he said to John, "I'm told it's a certainty this year, and I've come early, too early for me, to see a glorious victory. There's civil war raging on the top of the Trent coach, I give you my word."

"We've won the toss," said John.

"Ah, there's Charles Desmond, an early bird, too."

He bustled away, leaving John and the Caterpillar together. The great ground in front of them was being cleared. One could see, through the few people scattered here and there, the wickets pitched in the middle of that vast expanse of lawn, and the umpires in their long white coats. Upon the top of the steps, in the middle of the pavilion, the Eton captain was collecting his Eleven. TheDuffer, who had got his Flannels at the last moment, came up and joined John and the Caterpillar.

"The Manor's well to the front," said the Caterpillar. "By Jove! I never thought to see Fluff in the Eleven."

"Fluff came on tremendously this term," the Duffer replied.

"Of course the Kinlochs are a cricketing family."

"Good joke the brothers playing against each other," said John.

"Warde," the Duffer nodded in the direction of Warde, who was talking with Charles Desmond and Colonel Egerton, "has worked like a slave. He made a cricketer out of Fluff and a scholar out of Jonathan. He's so mad keen to see us win, that he's given me the jumps."

"You must keep cool," the Caterpillar murmured. "I've just come from the Trent coach. Fluff has it from the brother who is playing that the Eton bowling is weak. But Strathpeffer, the eldest son, tells me the batsmen are stronger than last year. He seemed anxious to bet; so we have a fiver about it. They're taking the field."

The Eton Eleven walked towards the wicket, loudly cheered. Cæsar came up in his pads, carrying his bat and gloves. He shook hands with the Caterpillar, and said, with a groan, that he had to take the first ball.

"Keep cool," said the Caterpillar. "The bowling's weak; I have it from Cosmo Kinloch. They're in a precious funk."

"So am I," said the Duffer.

"But you're a bowler," said Desmond. "If I get out first ball, I shall cut my throat."

But Cæsar looked alert, cool, and neither under- nor over-confident.

"You'll cut the ball, not your throat," said the Duffer. Cutting was Cæsar's strong point.

The Caterpillar nodded, and spoke oracularly—

"My governor says he never shoots at a snipe without muttering to himself, 'Snipe on toast.' It steadies hisnerves. When you see the ball leave the bowler's hand, you say to yourself, 'Eton on toast.'"

"Your own, Caterpillar?"

"My own," said the Caterpillar, modestly. "I don't often make a joke, but that's mine. Pass it on."

The other Harrovian about to go in beckoned to Desmond.

"Cæsar won't be bowled first ball," said the Caterpillar. "He's the sort that rises to an emergency. Can't we find a seat?"

They sat down and watched the Eton captain placing his field. Desmond and his companion were walking slowly towards the wickets amid Harrow cheers. The cheering was lukewarm as yet. It would have fire enough in it presently. The Caterpillar pointed out some of the swells.

"That's old Lyburn. Hasn't missed a match since '64. Was brought here once with a broken leg! Carried in a litter, by Jove! That fellow with the long, white beard is Lord Fawley. He made 78not outin the days of Charlemagne."

"It was in '53," said the Duffer, who never joked on really serious subjects; "and he made 68, not 78. He's pulling his beard. I believe he's as nervous as I am."

Presently the innumerable voices about them were hushed; all eyes turned in one direction. Desmond was about to take the first ball. It was delivered moderately fast, with a slight break. Desmond played forward.

"Well played, sir! Well pla-a-ayed!"

The shout rumbled round the huge circle. The beginning and the end of a great match are always thrilling. The second and third balls were played like the first. John could hear Mr. Desmond saying to Warde, "He has Hugo's style and way of standing—eh?" And Warde replied, "Yes; but he's a finer batsman. Ah-h-h!"

The first real cheer burst like a bomb. Desmond had cut the sixth ball to the boundary.

Over! The new bowler was a tall, thin boy with flaxen hair.

"That's Cosmo Kinloch, Fluff's brother," said John. "I wonder they can't do better than that. Even I knocked him all over the shop at White Ladies last summer."

"He's come on, they tell me," said the Caterpillar. "Good Lord, he nearly had him first ball."

Fluff's brother bowled slows of a good length, with an awkward break from the off to the leg.

"Teasers," said the Caterpillar, critically. "Hullo! No, my young friend, that may do well enough in Shropshire, not here."

A ball breaking sharply from the off had struck the batsman's pad; he had stepped in front of his wicket to cut it. Country umpires are often beguiled by bowlers into giving wrong decisions in such cases; not so your London expert. Cosmo Kinloch appealed—in vain.

"He'll send a short one down now," said John. "You see."

And, sure enough, a long hop came to the off, curling inwards after it pitched. The Eton captain had nearly all his men on the off side. The Harrovian pulled the ball right round to the boundary.

"Well hit!"

"Well pulled!"

"Two 4's; that's a good beginning," said the Duffer.

A couple of singles followed, and then the first "10" went up amid cheers.

"Here's my governor," said the Duffer. "He was three years in the Eleven and Captain his last term."

"You've told us that a thousand times," said the Caterpillar.

The Rev. Septimus Duff greeted the boys warmly. His eyes sparkled out of a cheery, bearded face. Look at him well. An Harrovian of the Harrovians this. His grandfathers on the maternal and paternal side had been friends at Harrow in Byron's time. The Rev. Septimus worerather a shabby coat and a terrible hat, but the consummate Caterpillar, who respected pedigrees, regarded him with pride and veneration. He came up from his obscure West Country vicarage to town just once a year—to see the match. If you asked him, he would tell you quite simply that he would sooner see the match and his old friends than go to Palestine; and the Rev. Septimus had yearned to visit Palestine ever since he left Cambridge; and it is not likely that this great wish will ever be gratified. He is the father of three sons, but the Duffer is the first to get into the Eleven. Charles Desmond joins them. At the moment, Charles Desmond is supposed to be one of the most harried men in the Empire. Times are troublous. A war-cloud, as large as Kruger's hand, has just risen in the South, and is spreading itself over the whole world. But to-day the great Minister has left the cares of office in Downing Street. He hails the Rev. Septimus with a genial laugh and a hearty grasp of the hand.

"Ah, Sep, upon your word of honour, now—would you sooner be here to see the Duffer take half a dozen wickets, or be down in Somerset, Bishop of Bath and Wells?"

"Whenyouoffer me the bishopric," replied the Rev. Septimus, with a twinkle, "I'll answer that question, my dear Charles, and not before."

"You old humbug! You're so puffed up with sinful pride that you've stuck your topper on to your head the wrong way about."

"Bless my soul," said the Duffer's father, "so I have."

"That topper of the governor's," the Duffer remarked solemnly, "has seen twenty-five matches at least."

John looked at no hats; his eyes were on the pitch. Another round of cheers proclaimed that "20" had gone up. Both boys are batting steadily; no more boundary hits; a snick here, a snack there—and then—merciful Heavens!—Cæsar has cut a curling ball "bang" into short slip's hands.

Short slip—wretched youth—muffs it! Derisive remarks from Rev. Septimus.

"Well caught! Well held! Tha-a-nks!"

The Caterpillar would pronounce this sort of chaff bad form in a contemporary. He removes his hat.

"By Jove!" says he. "It's very warm."

Cæsar times the next ball beautifully. It glides past point and under the ropes.

Early as it is, the ground seems to be packed with people. Glorious weather has allured everybody. Stand after stand is filled up. The colour becomes kaleidoscopic. The Rev. Septimus, during the brief interval of an over, allows his eyes to stray round the huge circle. Upon the ground are the youth, the beauty, the rank and fashion of the kingdom, and, best of all, his old friends. The Rev. Septimus has a weakness, being, of course, human to the finger-tips. He calls himself alaudator temporis acti. In his day, the match was less of a function. The boys sat round upon the grass; behind them were the carriages and coaches—you could drive on to the ground then!—and here and there, only here and there, a tent or a small stand.Consule Planco—the parson loves a Latin tag—the match was an immense picnic for Harrovians and Etonians. And, my word, you ought to have heard the chaff when an unlucky fielder put the ball on the floor. Or, when a batsman interposed a pad where a bat ought to have been. Or, if a player was bowled first ball. Or, if he swaggered as he walked, the cynosure of all eyes, from the pavilion to the pitch. Upon this subject the Rev. Septimus will preach a longer (and a more interesting) sermon than any you will hear from his pulpit in Blackford-Orcas Church.

Loud cheers put an end to the parson's reminiscences. Desmond's companion has been clean bowled for a useful fifteen runs. He walks towards the pavilion slowly. Then, as he hears the Harrow cheers, he blushes like a nymph of sixteen, for he counts himself a failure. Last year he made a "duck" in his first innings, and five in the second. Nocheers then. This is his first taste of the honey mortals call success. He has faced the great world, and captured its applause.

"When does Scaife go in?" the Rev. Septimus asks.

"Second wicket down."

More cheers as the second man in strolls down the steps. A careful cove, so the Duffer tells his father—one who will try to break the back of the bowling.

"They're taking off Fluff's brother," the Caterpillar observes.

A thick-set young man holds the ball. He makes some slight alteration in the field. The wicket-keeper stands back; the slips and point retreat a few yards. The ball that took the first wicket was the last of an over. Desmond has to receive the attack of the new bowler.

The thick-set Etonian, having arranged the off side to his satisfaction, prepares to take a long run. He holds the ball in the left hand, runs sideways at great speed, changes the ball from the left hand to the right at the last moment, and seems to hurl both it and himself at the batsman.

"Greased lightning!" says John.

A dry summer had made the pitch rather fiery. The ball, short-pitched, whizzes just over Cæsar's head. A second and a third seem to graze his cap. Murmurs are heard. Is the Eton bowler trying to kill or maim his antagonist? Is he deliberately endeavouring to establish a paralysing "funk"?

But the fourth ball is a "fizzer"—the right length, a bailer, terrifically fast, but just off the wicket. Desmond snicks it between short slip and third man; it goes to the boundary.

"That's what Cæsar likes," says the Duffer. "He can cut behind the wicket till the cows come home."

"Cut—and come again," says the Caterpillar.

The fifth ball is played forward for a risky single. The Rev. Septimus forgets that times have changed. And ifthey have, what of it? He hasn't. His deep, vibrant voice rolls across the lawn right up to the batsman—

"Steady there! Steady!"

And now the new-comer has to take the last ball of the over—his first. Alas and alack! The sixth ball is dead on to the middle stump. The Harrovian plays forward. Man alive, you ought to have played back to that! The ball grazes the top edge of the bat's blade and flies straight into the welcoming hands of the wicket-keeper.

Two wickets for 33.

Breathless suspense, broken by tumultuous cheers as Scaife strides on to the ground. His bat is under his arm; he is drawing on his gloves. Thousands of men and as many women are staring at his splendid face and figure.

"What a mover!" murmurs the Rev. Septimus.

Scaife strides on. Upon his face is the expression John knows so well and fears so much—the consciousness of power, the stern determination to be first, to shatter previous records. John can predict—and does so with absolute certainty—what will happen. For six overs the Demon will treat every ball—good, bad, and indifferent—with the most distinguished consideration. And then, when his "eye" is in, he will give the Etonians such leather-hunting as they never had before.

After a long stand made by Scaife and Desmond, Cæsar is caught at cover-point, but Scaife remains. It is a Colossus batting, not a Harrow boy. The balls come down the pitch; the Demon's shoulders and chest widen; the great knotted arms go up—crash! First singles; then twos; then threes; and then boundary after boundary. To John—and to how many others?—Scaife has been transformed into a tremendous human machine, inexorably cutting and slicing, pulling and driving—the embodied symbol of force, ruthlessly applied, indefatigable, omnipotent.

The Eton captain, hopeful against odds, puts on a cunning and cool dealer in "lobs." Fluff is in, playingsteadily, holding up his wicket, letting the giant make the runs. The Etonian delivers his first ball. Scaife leaves the crease. Fluff sees the ball slowly spinning—harmless enough till it pitches, and then deadly as a writhing serpent. Scaife will not let it pitch. The ball curves slightly from the leg to the off. Scaife is facing the pavilion——

A stupendous roar bursts from the crowd. The ball, hit with terrific force, sails away over the green sward, over the ropes, over the heads of the spectators, and slap on to the top of the pavilion.

Only four; but one of the finest swipes ever seen at Lord's. Shade of Mynn, come forth from the tomb to applaud that mighty stroke!

But the dealer in lobs knows that the man who leaves his citadel, leaves it, sooner or later, not to return. In the hope that Scaife, intoxicated with triumph, will run out again, he pitches the next lob too much up—a half-volley. Scaife smiles.

John's prediction has been fulfilled. A record has been established. Never before in an Eton and Harrow match have two balls been hit over the ropes in succession. The crowds have lost their self-possession. Men, women, and children are becoming delirious. The Rev. Septimus throws his ancient topper into the air; the Caterpillar splits a brand-new pair of delicate grey gloves. Upon the tops of the coaches, mothers, sisters, aunts, and cousins are cheering like Fourth-Form boys.

The Harrow first innings closed with 289 runs, Scaife carrying out his bat for an almost flawless 126. Desmond made 72; Fluff was in for twenty-seven minutes—a great performance for him—and was caught in the slips after compiling a useful 17.

But the remarkable feature of the innings was the short time in which so many runs were made—exactly three hours. The elevens went in to lunch, as the crowd poured over the ground, laughing and chattering. This is adelightful hour to the Rev. Septimus. He will walk to the wickets, and wait there for his innumerable friends. It will be, "Hullo, Sep!" "By Jove, here's dear old Sep!" "Sep, you unfriendly beast, why do you never come to see us?" "Sep, when are you going to send that awful tile of yours to the British Museum?" And so on.

Twenty men, at least—some of them with names known wherever the Union Jack waves—will ask the Rev. Sep to lunch with them; but the Rev. Sep will say, as he has said these thirty years, that he doesn't come to Lord's to "gorge." A sandwich presently, and a glass of "fizz," if you please; but time is precious. A tall bishop strolls up—one of the pillars of the Church, an eloquent preacher, and an autocrat in his diocese. Most people regard him with awe. The Rev. Sep greets him with a scandalous slap on the back, and addresses him, the apostolic one, as—Lamper.[37]And the Lord Bishop of Dudley says, like the others—

"Hullo, Sep! We used to think you a slogger, but you never came anywhere near that smite of Scaife's."

"I thought his smite was coming too near me," says the Rev. Sep, with a shrewd glance at the pavilion. "Lamper, old chap, Iamglad to see your 'phiz' again."

And so they stroll off together, mighty prelate and humble country parson, once again happy Harrow boys.

And now, before Eton goes in, we must climb on to the Trent coach. Fluff and his brother Cosmo, the Eton bowler, are lunching in other company, but we shall find Colonel Egerton and the Caterpillar and Warde; so the Hill slightly outnumbers the Plain, as the duke puts it. Next to the duchess sits Mrs. Verney. The duke is torn nearly in two between his desire that Fluff should make runs and that Cosmo, the Etonian, should take wickets. His Eton sons regard him as a traitor, a "rat," and Colonel Egerton gravely offers him the corn-flowers out of his coat.

"You can laugh," the duke says seriously, "but when I see what Harrow has done for Esmé, I'm almost sorry"—he looks at his youngest son (nearly, but not quite, as delicate-looking as Fluff used to be)—"I'm almost sorry that I didn't send Alastair there also."

Alastair smiles contemptuously. "If you had," he says, "I should have never spoken to you again. Esmé is a forgiving chap, but you've wrecked his life. At least, that's my opinion."

After luncheon, the crowd on the lawn thickens. The ladies want to see the pitch, and, shall we add, to display their wonderful frocks. The enclosure at Ascot on Cup Day is not so gay and pretty a scene as this. The Caterpillar, sly dog, has secured Iris Warde, and looks uncommonly pleased with himself and his companion; a smart pair, but smart pairs are common as gooseberries. It is the year of picture hats and Gainsborough dresses.

"England at its best," says Miss Iris.

"And in its best," the Caterpillar replies solemnly.

Iris Warde is as keen as her father's daughter ought to be. She tells the Caterpillar that when she was a small girl with only threepence a week pocket-money, she used to save a penny a week for twelve weeks preceding the match, so as to be able to put a shilling into the plate on Sundayif Harrow won.

"And I dare say you'll marry an Etonian and wear light blue after all," growls the Caterpillar.

"Never!" says Miss Iris.

Now, amongst the black coats in the pavilion you see a white figure or two. The Elevens have finished lunch, and are mixing with the crowd. Scaife is talking with a famous Old Carthusian, one of the finest living exponents of cricket, sometime an "International" at football, and a D.S.O. The great man is very cordial, for he sees in Scaife an All-England player. Scaife listens, smiling. Obviously, he is impatient to begin again. As soon as possible he collects his men, and leads them into the field. One can hear thepolicemen saying in loud, firm voices, "Pass along, please; pass along!" As if by magic the crowds on the lawn melt away. In a few minutes the Etonians come out of the pavilion. The sun shines upon their pale-blue caps and sashes, and upon faces slightly pale also, but not yet blue. For Eton has a strong batting team, and Scaife and Desmond have proved that it is a batsman's wicket.

And now the connoisseurs, the really great players, settle themselves down comfortably to watch Scaife field. That, to them, is the great attraction, apart from the contest between the rival schools. Some of these Olympians have been heard to say that Scaife's innings against weak bowling was no very meritorious performance, although the two "swipes," they admit, were parlous knocks. Still, Public School cricket is kindergarten cricket, and if you've not been at Eton or Harrow, and if you loathe a fashionable crowd, and if you think first-class fielding is worth coming to Lord's to see, why, then, my dear fellow, look at Scaife!

Scaife stands at cover-point. If you put up your binoculars, you will see that he is almost on his toes. His heels are not touching the ground. And he bends slightly, not quite as low as a sprinter, but so low that he can start with amazing speed. For two overs not a ball worth fielding rolls his way. Ah! that will be punished. A long hop comes down the pitch. The Etonian squares his shoulders. His eye, to be sure, is on the ball, but in his mind's eye is the boundary; in his ear the first burst of applause. Bat meets ball with a smack which echoes from the Tennis Court to the stands across the ground. Now watch Scaife! He dashes at top speed for the only point where his hands may intercept that hard-hit ball. And, by Heaven! he stops it, and flicks it up to the wicket-keeper, who whips off the bails.

"How's that?"

"Not out!"

"Well fielded; well fielded, sir!"

"A very close squeak," says the Caterpillar. "They won't steal many runs from the Demon."

"Sometimes," says Iris Warde, "I really think that heisa demon."

The Caterpillar nods. "You're more than half right, Miss Warde."

Presently, the first wicket falls; then the second soon after. And the score is under twenty. The Rev. Septimus is beaming; the Bishop seated beside him looks as if he were about to pronounce a benediction; Charles Desmond is scintillating with wit and good humour. Visions of a single innings victory engross the minds of these three. They are in the front row of the pavilion, and they mean to see every ball of the game.

But soon it becomes evident that a determined stand is being made. Runs come slowly, but they come; the score creeps up—thirty, forty, fifty. Fluff goes on to bowl. On his day Fluff is tricky, but this, apparently, is not his day. The runs come more quickly. The Rev. Septimus removes his hat, wipes his forehead, and replaces his hat. It is on the back of his head, but he is unaware of that. The Bishop appears now as if he were reading a new commination—to wit, "Cursed is he that smiteth his neighbour; cursed is he that bowleth half volleys." The Minister is frowning; things may look black in South Africa, but they're looking blacker in St. John's Wood.

One hundred runs for two wickets.

The Eton cheers are becoming exasperating. A few seats away Warde is twiddling his thumbs and biting his lips. Old Lord Fawley has slipped into the pavilion for a brandy and soda.

At last!

Scaife takes off Fluff and puts on a fast bowler, changing his own place in the field to short slip. The ball, a first ball and very fast, puzzles the batsman, accustomed to slows. He mistimes it; it grazes the edge of his bat, and whizzes off far to the right of Scaife, but the Demon has it.Somehow or other, ask of the spirits of the air—not of the writer—somehow his wonderful right hand has met and held the ball.

"Well caught, sir; well caught!"

"That boy ought to be knighted on the spot," says Charles Desmond. Then the three generously applaud the retiring batsman. He has played a brilliant innings, and restored the confidence of all Etonians.

The Eton captain descends the steps; a veteran this, not a dashing player, but sure, patient, and full of grit. He asks the umpire to give him middle and leg; then he notes the positions of the field.

"Whew-w-w-w!"

"D——n it!" ejaculates Charles Desmond. Bishop and parson regard him with gratitude. There are times when an honest oath becomes expedient. The Eton captain has cut the first ball into Fluff's hands, and Fluff has dropped it! Alastair Kinloch, from the top of the Trent coach, screams out, "Jolly well muffed!" The great Minister silently thanks Heaven that point is the Duke's son and not his.

And, of course, the Eton captain never gives another chance till he is dismissed with half a century to his credit. Meantime five more wickets have fallen. Seven down for 191! Eton leaves the field with a score of 226 against Harrow's 289. Harrow goes in without delay, and one wicket is taken for 13 runs before the stumps are drawn. Charles Desmond looks at the sky.

"Looks like rain to-night," he says anxiously.

And so ends Friday's play.

The morrow dawned grey, obscured by mist rising from ground soaked by two hours' heavy rain. You may be sure that all our friends were early at Lord's, and that the pitch was examined by thousands of anxious eyes. The Eton fast bowler was seen to smile. Upon a similar wicket had he not done the famous hat-trick only three weeksbefore? The rain, however, was over, and soon the sun would drive away the filmy mists. No man alive could foretell what condition the pitch would be in after a few hours of blazing sunshine. The Rev. Septimus told Charles Desmond that he considered the situation to be critical, and, although he had read the morning paper, he was not alluding even indirectly to South African affairs. Charles Desmond said that, other things being equal, the Hill would triumph; but he admitted that other things were very far from equal. It looked as if Harrow would have to bat upon a treacherous wicket, and Eton on a sound one.

At half-past ten punctually the men were in the field. Scaife issued last instructions. "Block the bowling; don't try to score till you see what tricks the ground will play. A minute saved now may mean a quarter of an hour to us later." Cæsar nodded cheerfully. The fact that the luck had changed stimulated every fibre of his being. And he said that he felt in his bones that this was going to be a famous match, like that of '85—something never to be forgotten.

Charles Desmond spoke few words while his son was batting. It was a tradition among the Desmonds that they rose superior to emergency. The Minister wondered whether his Harry would rise or fall. The fast bowler delivered the first ball. It bumped horribly. The Rev. Septimus shuddered and closed his eyes. Cæsar got well over it. The third ball was cut for three. The fourth whizzed down—a wide. The fast bowler dipped the ball into the sawdust.

"It isn't all jam for him," whispered the Rev. Septimus.

"Well bowled—well bowled!"

Alas! the middle stump was knocked clean out of the ground. Cæsar's partner, a steady, careful player, had been bowled by his first ball.

Two wickets for 17.

The crowd were expecting the hero, but Fluff was walking towards the wickets, wondering whether he shouldreach them alive. Never had his heart beat as at this moment. Scaife had come up to him as soon as he had examined the pitch.

"Fluff, I am putting you in early because you are a fellow I can trust. My first and last word is, hit at nothing that isn't wide of the wicket. The ground will probably improve fast."

Fluff nodded. A hive of bees seemed to have lodged in his head, and an active automatic hammer in his heart; but he didn't dare tell the Demon that funk, abject funk, possessed him, body and soul.

The second bowler began his first over. He bowled slows. Desmond played the six balls back along the ground. A maiden over.

And then that thick-set, muscular beast, for so Fluff regarded him, stared fixedly at Fluff's middle stump. Fluff glanced round. The wicket-keeper had a grim smile on his lips, for his billet was no easy one. Cosmo Kinloch at short slip looked as if it were a foregone conclusion that Fluff would put the ball into his hands. Then Fluff faced the bowler. Now for it!

The first ball was half a foot off the wicket, but Fluff let it go by. The second came true enough. Fluff blocked it. The third flew past Fluff's leg, but he just snicked it. Desmond started to run, and then stopped, holding up his hand. Cheers rippled round the ring for the first hit to the boundary. That was a bit of sheer luck, Fluff reflected.

After this both boys played steadily for some ten minutes. Then, very slowly, Cæsar began to score. He had made about fifteen when he drove a ball hard to the on, Fluff backing up. Desmond, watching the travelling ball, called to him to run. It seemed to Desmond almost certain that the ball would go to the boundary. Too late he realized that it had been magnificently fielded. Desmond strained every nerve, but his bat had not reached the crease when the bails flew to right and left.

Out! And run out!

Three wickets for 41!

A quarter of an hour later Fluff was bowled with a yorker. He had made eleven runs, and kept up his wicket during a crisis. Harrow cheered him loudly.

And then came the terrible moment of the morning. Scaife went in when Fluff's wicket fell. The ground had improved, but it was still treacherous. The fast bowler sent down a straight one. It shot under Scaife's bat and spread-eagled his stumps.

The wicket-keeper knows what the Harrow captain said, but it does not bear repeating. Every eye was on his scowling, furious face as he returned to the pavilion; and the Rev. Septimus scowled also, because he had always maintained that any Harrovian could accept defeat like a gentleman. Upon the other side of the ground the Caterpillar was saying to his father. "I always said he was hairy at the heel."

It was admitted afterwards that the Duffer's performance was the one really bright spot in Harrow's second innings. Being a bowler, he went in last but one. It happened that Fluff's brother was in possession of the ball. It will never be known why the Duffer chose to treat Cosmo Kinloch's balk with utter scorn and contempt. The Duffer was tall, strong, and a terrific slogger. Nobody expected him to make a run, but he made twenty in one over—all boundary hits. When he left the wicket he had added thirty-eight to the score, and wouldn't have changed places with an emperor. The Rev. Septimus followed him into the room where the players change.

"My dear boy," he said, "I've never been able to give you a gold watch, but you must take mine; here it is, and—and God bless you!"

But the Duffer swore stoutly that he preferred his own Waterbury.

Eton went in to make 211 runs in four hours, upon awicket almost as sound as it had been upon the Friday. Scaife put the Duffer on to bowl. The Demon had belief in luck.

"It's your day, Duffer," he said. "Pitch 'em up."

The Duffer, to his sire's exuberant satisfaction, "pitched 'em up" so successfully that he took four wickets for 33. Four out of five! The other bowlers, however, being not so successful, Eton accumulated a hundred runs. The captains had agreed to draw stumps at 7.30. To win, therefore, the Plain must make another hundred in two hours; and three of their crack batsmen were out.

After tea an amazing change took place in the temper of the spectators. Conviction seized them that the finish was likely to be close and thrilling; that the one thing worth undivided attention was taking place in the middle of the ground. As the minutes passed, a curious silence fell upon the crowd, broken only by the cheers of the rival schools. The boys, old and young alike, were watching every ball, every stroke. The Eton captain was still in, playing steadily, not brilliantly; the Harrow bowling was getting slack.

In the pavilion, the Rev. Septimus, Warde, and Charles Desmond were sitting together. Not far from them was Scaife's father, a big, burly man with a square head and heavy, strongly-marked features. He had never been a cricketer, but this game gripped him. He sat next to a world-famous financier of the great house of Neuchatel, whose sons had been sent to the Hill. Run after run, run after run was added to the score. Scaife's father turned to Neuchatel.

"I'd write a cheque for ten thousand pounds," he said, "if we could win."

Lionel Neuchatel nodded. "Yes," he muttered; "I have not felt so excited since Sir Bevis won the Derby."

In the deep field Desmond was standing, miserable because he had nothing to do. No balls came his way; for the Eton captain had made up his mind to win this matchwith singles and twos. Very carefully he placed his balls between the fielders; very carefully his partner followed his chief's example. No stealing of runs, no scoring off straight balls, no gallery play—till victory was assured.

Poor Lord Fawley retired at this point into an inner room, pulling savagely at his white beard. Old Lyburn, who had been sitting beside him, gurgling and gasping, staggered after him. The Rev. Septimus kept wiping his forehead.

"I can't stand this much longer," said Warde, in a hoarse whisper.

"Well hit, sir! Well hit!"

The Eton cheering became frantic. After nearly an hour's pawky, uninteresting play, the Eton captain suddenly changed his tactics. His "eye" was in; now or never let him score. A half-volley came down from the pavilion end—a half-volley and off the wicket. The Etonian put all the strength and power he had suppressed so manfully into a tremendous swipe, and hit the ball clean over the ropes.

"Do you want to double that bet?" said Strathpeffer to the Caterpillar. They were standing on the top of the Trent coach.

"No, thanks."

"Give you two to one, Egerton?"

"Done—in fivers."

The unhappy bowler sent down another half-volley. Once more the Etonian smote, and smote hard; but this ball was not quite the same as the first, although it appeared identical. The ball soared up and up. Would it fall over the ropes? Thousands of eyes watched its flight. Desmond started to run. Golconda to a sixpence on the fall! It is falling, falling, falling.

"He'll never get there in time," says Charles Desmond.

"Yes he will," Warde answers savagely.

"He has!" screamed the Rev. Septimus. "He—has!"

Pandemonium broke loose. Grey-headed men threwtheir hats into the air; M.P.'s danced; lovely women shrieked; every Harrovian on the ground howled. For Cæsar held the ball fast in his lean, brown hands.

The Eton captain walks slowly towards the pavilion. He had to pass Cæsar on his way, and passing him he pauses.

"That was a glorious catch," he says, with the smile of a gallant gentleman.

And as Harrow, as cordially as Eton, cheers the retiring chieftain, the Caterpillar whispers to Mrs. Verney—

"Did you see that? Did you see him stop to congratulate Cæsar?"

"Yes," says Mrs. Verney.

"I hope Scaife saw it too," the Caterpillar replies coolly. "That Eton captain is cut out of whole cloth; no shoddy there, by Jove!"

And Desmond. How does Desmond feel? It is futile to ask him, because he could not tell you, if he tried. But we can answer the question. If the country that he wishes to serve crowns him with all the honours bestowed upon a favoured son, never,neverwill Cæsar Desmond know again a moment of such exquisite, unadulterated joy as this.

Six wickets down and 39 runs to get in less than half an hour!

Every ball now, every stroke, is a matter for cheers, derisive or otherwise. The Rev. Septimus need not prate of golden days gone by. Boys at heart never change. And the atmosphere is so charged with electricity that a spark sets the firmament ablaze.

Seven wickets for 192.

Eight wickets for 197.

Signs of demoralization show themselves on both sides. The bowling has become deplorably feeble, the batting even more so. Four more singles are recorded. Only ten runs remain to be made, with two wickets to fall.

And twelve minutes to play!

Scaife puts on the Duffer again. The lips of the Rev. Sep are seen to move inaudibly. Is he praying, or cursing, because three singles are scored off his son's first three balls?

"Well bowled—well bowled!"

A ball of fair length, easy enough to play under all ordinary circumstances, but a "teaser" when tremendous issues are at stake, has defeated one of the Etonians. The last man runs towards the pitch through a perfect hurricane of howls. Warde rises.

"I can't stand it," he says, and his voice shakes oddly. "You fellows will find me behind the Pavvy after the match."

"I'd go with you," says the Rev. Septimus, in a choked tone, "but if I tried to walk I should tumble down."

Charles Desmond says nothing. But, pray note the expression so faithfully recorded inPunch—the compressed lips, the stern, frowning brows, the protruded jaw. The famous debater sees all fights to a finish, and fights himself till he drops.

Seven runs to make, one wicket to fall, and five minutes to play!!!

Evidently the last man in has received strenuous instructions from his chief. The bowling has degenerated into that of anæmic girls—and two whacks to the boundary mean—Victory. The new-comer is the square, thick-set fast bowler, the worst bat in the Eleven, but a fellow of determination, a slogger and a run-getter against village teams.

He obeys instructions to the letter. The Duffer's fifth ball goes to the boundary.

Three runs to make and two and a half minutes to play!

The Duffer sends down the last ball. The Rev. Septimus covers his eyes. O wretched Duffer! O thou whose knees are as wax, and whose arms are as chop-sticks in the hands of a Griffin! O egregious Duff! O degenerate son of a noble sire, dost thou dare at such a moment as this to attack thine enemy with a—long hop?

The square, thick-set bowler shows his teeth as the ball pitches short. Then he smites and runs. Runs, because he has smitten so hard that no hand, surely, can stop the whirling sphere. Runs—ay—and so does the Demon at cover point. This is the Demon's amazing conjuring-trick—what else can you call it? And he has practised it so often, that he reckons failure to be almost impossible. To those watching he seems to spring like a tiger at the ball. By Heaven! he has stopped it—he's snapped it up! But if he despatches it to the wicket-keeper, it will arrive too late. The other Etonian is already within a couple of yards of the crease. Scaife does not hesitate. He aims at the bowler's wicket towards which the burly one is running as fast as legs a thought too short can carry him.

He aims and shies—instantaneously. He shatters the wicket.

"How's that?"

The appeal comes from every part of the ground.

And then, clearly and unmistakably, the umpire's fiat is spoken—

"Out!"

The Rev. Sep rises and rushes off, upsetting chairs, treading on toes, bent only upon being the first to tell Warde that Harrow has won.

"Io! Io! Io!"

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