g, but his
perfect eye and wrist made him a beautiful player of any game with a
ball. Also he rode and shot well, and knew all about the inside of a
car. But, although he was always enthusiastic about anything he was
doing, he was not really keen on games. He preferred wandering about the
country looking for birds' nests or discovering the haunts of rare
butterflies; he liked managing a small boat single-handed in a stiff
breeze; he would have enjoyed being upset and having to swim a long way
to shore. Most of all, perhaps, he loved to lie on the top of the cliffs
and think of the wonderful things that he would do for England when he
was a Cabinet Minister. For politics was to be his profession, and he
had just taken a first in History by way of preparation for it.

There were a lot of silly people who envied Peter's mother. They
thought, poor dears, that she must be very, very proud of him, for they
regarded Peter as the ideal of the modern young Englishman. "If only my
boy grows up to be like Peter Riley!" they used to say to themselves;
and then add quickly, "But of course he'll be much nicer." In their
ignorance they didn't see that it was the Peters of England who were
making our country the laughing-stock of the world.

If you had been in Berlin in 1916, you would have seen Peter; for he had
been persuaded, much against his will, to uphold the honour of Great
Britain in the middle-weights at the Olympic Games. He got a position in
the papers as "P. Riley, disqualified"--the result, he could only
suppose, of his folly in allowing his opponent to butt him in the
stomach. He was both annoyed and amused about it; offered to fight his
vanquisher any time in England; and privately thanked Heaven that he
could now get back to London in time for his favourite sister's wedding.

But he didn't. The English trainer, who had been sent, at the public
expense, to America for a year, to study the proper methods, got hold of
him.

"I've been watching you, young man," he said. "You'll have to give
yourself up to me now. You're the coming champion."

"I'm sorry," said Peter politely, "but I shan't be fighting again."

"Fighting!" said the trainer scornfully. "Don't you worry; I'll take
good care that you don't fight any more. The event _you're_ going to win
is 'Pushing the Chisel.' I've been watching you, and you've got the most
perfect neck and calf-muscles for it I've ever seen. No more fighting
for you, my boy; nor cricket