At that time most of the Conservative
papers poohpoohed the possibility of an appeal to arms, but Scaife's
father, admittedly a great authority on South African affairs, had told
his son a fight was inevitable. More, he and his friends were already
preparing to raise a regiment of mounted infantry. At breakfast Scaife
announced this piece of news, and added that in the event of
hostilities he would join this regiment, and not try to pass into
Sandhurst. And he added that any of his friends who were present, and
over eighteen years of age, were cordially invited to send in their
names, and that he personally would do all that was possible to secure
them billets. The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Caesar
Desmond was on his feet, with an eager--

"Put me down, Demon; put me down first!"

And then Scaife glanced at John, as he answered--

"Right you are, Caesar, and if things go well with us, I fancy that we
shall get our commissions in regular regiments soon enough. The
governor has had a hint to that effect. Let's drink success to
'Scaife's Horse.'"

The toast was drunk with enthusiasm.

During the holidays, John saw nothing of Desmond, although they wrote
to each other once a week. John was reading hard with an eye to a
possible Scholarship at Oxford; Desmond was playing cricket with
Scaife. Later, Desmond went to the Scaife moor in Scotland. John
noted that his friend's letters were full of two things only: sport,
and the ever-increasing probability of war. At the end of August John
Verney, the explorer, returning to Verney Boscobel after an absence of
nearly four years, began to write his now famous book on the Far East.
Then John learned from his mother that his uncle had borne all the
charges of his education. When he thanked him, the uncle said warmly--

"You have more than repaid me, my dear boy; not another word, please,
about that. Warde tells me they expect great things of you at Oxford."

Uncle and nephew were alone, after dinner. John had noticed that the
hardships endured in Manchuria and Thibet had left scars upon the
traveller. His hair was white, he looked an old man; one whose
wanderings in wild places must perforce come soon to an end.

"Uncle," said John. "I want to chuck Oxford."

"Eh?"

"I should like to go into the Army."

"Bless my soul!"

The explorer eyed his nephew with wrinkled brow. John gave reasons; we
can guess what they were. The prospect of war had