de's indefatigable coaching. Scaife hardly ever spoke to
John now, but occasionally he came into No. 7 to talk to Desmond. Upon
these rare occasions John would generally find an excuse for leaving the
room. Always, when he returned, Desmond seemed to be restless and
perplexed. His admiration for Scaife had waxed rather than waned.
Indeed, John himself, detesting Scaife--for it had come to that--fearing
him on Desmond's account, admired him notwithstanding: captivated by
his amazing grace, good looks, and audacity. His recklessness held even
the "Bloods" spellbound. A coach ran through Harrow in the afternoons of
that season. Scaife made a bet that he would drive this coach from one
end of the High Street to the other, under the very nose of Authority.
The rules of the school set forth rigorously that no boy is to drive in
or on any vehicle whatever. Only the Cycle Corps are allowed to use
bicycles. Scaife's bet, you may be sure, excited extraordinary interest.
He won it easily, disguised as the coachman--a make-up clever enough to
deceive even those who were in the secret. His friends knew that he kept
two polo-ponies at Wembley. One afternoon he dared to play in a match
against the Nondescripts. Warde's daughter, just out of the schoolroom,
happened to be present, and she rubbed her lovely eyes when she saw
Scaife careering over the field. Scaife laughed when he saw her; but
before she left the ground a note had reached her.

"DEAR MISS WARDE,

"I am sure that you 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 lik