is hand shook, feeling the pulse of old and young in
front of him. Dominated, swept away by his theme, he dominated others.
When he finished, in the silence that preceded the roar of applause, he
knew that he had triumphed, for he saw Desmond's glowing countenance,
radiant with pleasure, transfigured by amazement and admiration. Next
day a great newspaper hailed the Harrow boy as one destined to delight
and to lead, perhaps, an all-conquering party in the House of Commons.
And yet, warmed to the core by this praise, John counted it as nothing
compared with his mother's smile and Desmond's fervent grip.

Fortune, however, comes to no man--or boy--with both hands full.
Immediately after Speech Day, John's bubble of pride and happiness was
pricked by Scaife. Midsummer madness seized the Demon. One may
conceive that the innate recklessness of his nature, suppressed by an
iron will, and smouldering throughout many months, burst at last into
flame. Desmond told John that the Demon had spent a riotous night in
town. He had slipped out of the Manor after prayers, had driven up to
a certain club in Regent Street, returned in time for first school,
fresh as paint--so Desmond said--and then, not content with such an
achievement, must needs brag of it to Desmond.

"And if he's nailed, Eton wins," concluded Desmond. "I've told you,
because together we must put a stop to such larks."

John slightly raised his thick eyebrows. It was curious that Caesar
always chose to ignore the hatred which he must have known to exist
between his two friends. Or did be fatuously believe that, because
John exercised an influence over himself, the same influence would or
could be exercised over Scaife?

"We?" said John.

"I've tried and failed. But together, I say----"

"I shan't interfere, Caesar."

"Jonathan, you must."

"It would be a fool's errand."

"We three have gone up the School together. You have never been fair
to Scaife. I tell you he's sound at core. Why, after he was
swished----"

Desmond told John what had passed; John shook his head. He could
understand better than any one else why Scaife had broken down.

"He has splendid ambitions," pursued Desmond. "He's going to be a
great soldier, you see. He thinks of nothing else. You never have
liked him, but because of that I thought you would do what you could."

The disappointment and chagrin in his voice shook John's resolution.

"To please you, I'll try."