the right to fag, and
the right to "find." How blessed a privilege the right to find is,
boys who have enjoyed it will attest. The cosy meals in one's own
room, the pleasant talk, the sense of intimacy, the freedom from
restraint. Custom stales all good things, but how delicious they taste
at first!

The privilege of fagging is not, however, unadulterated bliss. When
Warde said to Caesar, "Well, Desmond, how do you like ordering about
your slave?" Desmond replied, ruefully, "Well, sir, little Duff has
broken my inkstand, spilt the ink on our new carpet, and let Verney's
bullfinch escape. I think, on the whole, I'd as lief wait on myself."

Early in June it became plain that unless the unforeseen occurred,
Harrow would have a strong Eleven, and that Desmond would be a member
of it. John and Fluff were playing in the Sixth Form game; but John
had no chance of his Flannels, although he had improved in batting and
bowling, thanks to Warde's indefatigable coaching. Scaife hardly ever
spoke to John now, but occasionally he came into No. 7 to talk to
Desmond. Upon these rare occasions John would generally find an excuse
for leaving the room. Always, when he returned, Desmond seemed to be
restless and perplexed. His admiration for Scaife had waxed rather
than waned. Indeed, John himself, detesting Scaife--for it had come to
that--fearing him on Desmond's account, admired him notwithstanding:
captivated by his amazing grace, good looks, and audacity. His
recklessness held even the "Bloods" spellbound. A coach ran through
Harrow in the afternoons of that season. Scaife made a bet that he
would drive this coach from one end of the High Street to the other,
under the very nose of Authority. The rules of the school set forth
rigorously that no boy is to drive in or on any vehicle whatever. Only
the Cycle Corps are allowed to use bicycles. Scaife's bet, you may be
sure, excited extraordinary interest. He won it easily, disguised as
the coachman--a make-up clever enough to deceive even those who were in
the secret. His friends knew that he kept two polo-ponies at Wembley.
One afternoon he dared to play in a match against the Nondescripts.
Warde's daughter, just out of the schoolroom, happened to be present,
and she rubbed her lovely eyes when she saw Scaife careering over the
field. Scaife laughed when he saw her; but before she left the ground
a note had reached her.

"DEAR MISS WARDE,

"I am sure that you