t Desmond, and smiled--valiantly.

"Scaife," said Lawrence, gravely, "you're not playing the game."

Scaife scowled. "I only know I've half killed myself," he muttered.

Lawrence continued in the same steady voice, "Yes; because you missed
an easy base which has happened to me and every other player scores of
times. Come here, Desmond."

Desmond joined them. Lawrence's face brightened when he saw hopeful
eyes and a gallant smile.

"You don't despair?"

"We'll knock 'em into smithereens yet."

"That's the Harrow spirit, but temper your determination to win with a
little common sense. You've overdone it, both of you. Take my tip:
they'll play up like blazes. Defend your own base; and then when
they're spent, trample on 'em."

"Thank you," said Desmond.

Scaife nodded sulkily.

None the less he had too great respect for Lawrence's ability and
experience as a captain to disregard his advice. After the kick-off,
Damer's _did_ play up, and the Manor had to defend its base against
sustained and fierce attack. Again and again a third base was almost
kicked, again and again superior weight prevailed in the scrimmages.
Within ten minutes Damer's were gasping and weary. And then, the ball
was forced out of the scrimmage and kicked to the top side, Desmond's
place in the field. Comparatively fresh, seeing the glorious
opportunity, grasping it, hugging it, Caesar swooped on the ball. He
had the heels of any boy on the opposite side. Down the field he sped,
faster and faster, amid the roars of the School, roars which came to
his ears like the deep booming of breakers upon a lee shore. To many
of those watching him, the sight of that graceful figure, that shining
ardent face, revealing the promise which youth and beauty always offer
to a delighted world, became an ineffaceable memory. Damer turned to
the Head of his house.

"And Desmond ought to be one of _us_," he groaned.

And now Caesar had passed all forwards. If he keep his wits a base is
certain. The full back alone lies between him and triumph. But this
is the moment, the psychological moment, when one tiny mistake will
prove irrevocable. The Head of Damer's whispers as much to Damer, who
smiles sadly.

"His father's son will not blunder now," he replies.

Nor does he. The mistake--for mistake there must be on one side or
t'other--is made by Damer's back. As the ball rolls halfway between
them, the back hesitates and falters.

One base to