risky things in the paper, and I
thought if I cut it out he might hack about the rest of the rag. And,
besides, it will be an awful score when we win next year, as we are
absolutely certain to. Can't you imagine the account: 'Last year some
rather foolhardy persons doubted the ability of the School House to deal
with a combined side of the best three outhouses, and they were rash
enough to express their doubts in print. But this year, under the able
captaincy of G.F. Hunter, with the forwards admirably led by G.R.
Caruthers, the House gained a thoroughly deserved victory by fifteen
points to three.' We shall crow then, my lads, sha'n't we?"

"Yes, it will be all right then," said Mansell. "My lord, I wish I was
going to be here to play in it. My governor is a fool to make me leave
and go to France."

Mansell was leaving at the end of the term.

"Well, all the same, it's a vile insult to the House," said Gordon.
"Whether he meant it or not, it's an insult."

But his annoyance passed quickly. He was far too certain of the future
to worry much about what anyone said. He was sure the House would win in
the end. It was only a question of time. And when the prize-giving came,
his anger gave way to pride. His place in form gave him little
satisfaction, for he was easily bottom of the Sixth; but after the books
had been given there came the turn of the House cups. Amid enormous
cheers Lovelace went up for the Thirds cup; amid still louder cheers he
and the outhouse captain stepped up together to receive the Two Cock
cup. Then at tea Hazelton walked into hall carrying the two trophies to
place on the mantelpiece, and the House burst forth in a roar of
cheering. It was all sheer joy; and beyond the present glory shone the
dawn of great triumphs to come. The House was just entering on its
career of success. The day of Buller's was at an end. There only
remained to them the remnants of their earlier glory. Where they had
stood the House was about to stand. And in that hour of triumph Gordon
himself would be the protagonist.

The short Easter holidays passed happily. Over the fresh grass of
Hampstead Heath Gordon wandered alone on those April mornings, when the
trees were breaking into a green splendour, when the long waters of the
Welsh Harp lay out in the morning sun like a sheet of gold. Looking
across from the firs he saw the spire of Harrow church cutting the red
sky, and the long stretch of country in between rolling out