e not wanted yet. And you are an only
son; all your mother has. John, you must think of her, and you will
think of her, I know."

The conviction in his quiet voice communicated itself to his nephew.
There was a pause of nearly a minute; and then John answered, in a
voice curiously like his uncle's--

"All right."

Verney senior held out his hand. "I knew you would say that," he
murmured.

On the 18th of September, when John returned to the Hill, the country
had just learned that the proposals of the Imperial Government to
accept the note of August 19 (provided it were not encumbered by
conditions which would nullify the intention to give substantial
representation to the Uitlanders) had not been accepted. That this
meant war, none, least of all a schoolboy, doubted. Desmond could talk
of nothing else. He told John that his father had promised to let him
leave Harrow before the end of the term, if war were declared. The
Demon, so John was informed, had made already preparations. He was
taking out his three polo ponies, and had hopes of being appointed
Galloper to a certain General. Scaife's Horse was being organized, but
in any case would not take the field before several months had elapsed;
the Demon intended to be on the spot when the first shot was fired.

To all this gunpowder-talk John listened with envious ears and a
curious sinking of the heart. He had looked forward to having Desmond
to himself; and lo! his friend was seven thousand miles away--on the
veldt, not on the Hill.

"You are not keen," said Desmond.

On the day of the Goose Match, Saturday, September 30th, Scaife came
down to Harrow to take leave of his friends. Already, John noted an
extraordinary difference in his manner and appearance. He treated John
to a slightly patronizing smile, called him Jonathan, asked if he could
be of service to him, and posed most successfully as a sort of sucking
Alexander.

That he absorbed Desmond's eyes and mind was indisputable. Everything
outside South Africa, and in particular the Hill and all things
thereon, dwindled into insignificance. Scaife made Desmond a present
of the very best maps obtainable, and nailed them on the wall above the
mantelpiece, pulling down a fine engraving which John had given to
Desmond about a year before. Desmond uttered no protest. The
engraving was bundled out of sight behind a sofa.

And after Scaife's departure, Desmond talked of him continually, and
alw