e would show the stuck-up snobs what a soldier they had
turned away. A soldier he fully intended to be--a dashing cavalry
leader, if the Fates were kind. His luck would stand by him; if
not--why--what was life without luck? He had never been a reader, but
he read now the lives of soldiers. Murat, Uxbridge, Cardigan, Hodson,
were his heroes. Talking of their achievements, he inflamed his own
mind and Desmond's.

The pleasant summer days passed. May melted into June. And each
Sunday John and Desmond walked to the Haunted House, ascended the
tower, and talked. Scaife was leaving at the end of the summer.
Desmond was staying on for the winter term; then John would have him
entirely to himself. This thought illumined dark hours, when he saw
his friend whirled away by Scaife, transported, as it were, by the
irresistible power of the man of action. That nothing should be
wanting to that trebly-fortunate youth, he had helped to win the Public
Schools' Racquets Championship. The Manor was now the crack
house--cock-house at racquets and football, certain to be cock-house at
cricket. And Scaife got most of the credit, not Warde, who smiled more
than ever, and talked continually of Balliol Scholarships. He never
bragged of victories past.

Meantime, John was devoting all energies to the competition for the
Prize Essay. The Head Master had propounded as theme: "The History and
Influence of Parliamentary Oratory." Bit by bit, John read or
declaimed it to Desmond. Then, according to custom, Desmond copied it
out for his friend. Signed "_Spero Infestis_," with a sealed envelope
containing John's name inside and the motto outside, the MS. was placed
in the Head Master's letter-box. John, cooling rapidly after the fever
of composition, condemned his stuff as hopelessly bad; Caesar went
about telling everybody that Jonathan would win easily, "with a bit to
spare." John did win, but that proved to be the least part of his
triumph. The Essay had to be declaimed upon Speech Day. Once more
John experienced the pangs that had twisted him at the concert, long
ago, when he had sung to the Nation's hero. And as before, he began
weakly. Then, the fire seizing him, self-consciousness was exorcised
by feeling, and forgetful of the hundreds of faces about him, he burst
into genuine oratory. Thrilled himself, he thrilled others. His voice
faltered again, but with an emotion that found an echo in the hearts of
his audience; h