have too much sporting blood in your veins to tell
your father that you have seen me playing polo.

"Yours very sincerely,

"REGINALD SCAIFE."

To run such risks seemed to John madness; to Desmond it indicated
genius.

"There never was such a fellow," said Caesar to John.

When Caesar spoke in that tone John knew that Scaife had but to hold up
a finger, and that Caesar would come to him even as a bird drops into
the jaws of a snake. Caesar was strong, but the Demon was stronger.

After the Zingari Match, Desmond got his Flannels. He was cheered at
six Bill. Everybody liked him; everybody was proud of him, proud of
his father, proud of the long line of Desmonds, all distinguished,
good-looking, and with charming manners. The School roared its
satisfaction. John stood a little back, by the cloisters. Caesar ran
past him, down the steps and into the street, hat in hand, blushing
like a girl. John felt a lump in his throat. He thrilled because
glory shone about his friend; but the poignant reflection came, that
Caesar was running swiftly, out of the Yard and out of his own life.
And before lock-up he saw, what he had seen in fancy a thousand times,
Caesar arm-in-arm with Scaife and the Captain of the Eleven, Caesar in
his new straw,[3] looking happier than John had ever seen him, Caesar,
the "Blood," rolling triumphantly down the High Street, the envied of
all beholders, the hero of the hour.

John called himself a selfish beast, because he had wished for one
terrible moment, wished with heart and soul, that Caesar was unpopular
and obscure.

[1] The place of execution.

[2] "Finding" is the privilege, accorded to the Sixth Form, of having
breakfast and tea served in their own rooms instead of in Hall.

[3] The black-and-white straw hat only worn by members of the School
Cricket Eleven.

CHAPTER XI

SELF-QUESTIONING

"Friend, of my infinite dreams
Little enough endures;
Little howe'er it seems,
It is yours, all yours.
Fame hath a fleeting breath,
Hope may be frail or fond;
But Love shall be Love till death,
And perhaps beyond."

Until the Metropolitan Railway joined Harrow to Baker Street, the Hill
stood in the midst of genuine and unspoilt country, separated by five
miles of grass from the nearest point of the metropolis, and
encompassed by isolated dwellings, ranging in rank and scale from
villas to country houses.[1] Most of the latter have fallen vict