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Updated: June 23, 2025
John's brain worked slowly, as he had found out to his cost under a form-master who maintained that it was no use having a fact stored in the head unless it slipped readily out of the mouth. The Duffer, who never thought, because speaking was so much easier, grew impatient at John's silence. "Well, you needn't look like an owl, Verney. You know that Scaife's grandfather was a navvy."
Like Warde, he did not know absolutely, but he guessed that Scaife had spent another riotous night to town since the match. He had read it in the eyes glittering with excitement, in the derisive smile of conscious power, in the magnetic audacity of Scaife's glance. And then he remembered Lawrence's parting words "It will be a fight to a finish, and, mark me, Warde will win!"
Scaife had spent much money in making this room as comfortable as possible. It had the appearance of a man's room, and presented all the characteristics of the man who lived in it. Everything connected with Scaife's triumphal march through the School was preserved. On the walls were his caps, fezes, and cups.
"Of course you know, sir, that Scaife's getting his 'fez' releases him from house-fagging. We thought Trieve had forgotten that, sir; and that it would be rather fun I'm not excusing myself, sir we thought it would be a harmless joke if we persuaded Scaife not to go." "Um!" "We were very foolish, sir.
And only to win a bet, and for the excitement of jumping out of a window. John tried to dissuade me. When he exhausted every argument, he went himself." "The Lord be praised!" said Warde. He had divined everything; but he let Desmond tell the story in detail. Scaife's name was left out of the narrative.
"I could worry along without 'em," the Demon replied, half-smiling. "You see," he added, with the blend of irony and pathos which always captivated his friend, "you see, my dear old chap, I'm the first of my family at Harrow, and the sight of all your brothers and uncles and fathers makes me feel like Mark Twain's good man, rather lonesome." At once Desmond responded, clutching Scaife's arm.
He looked sharply at John, who did not understand. Then he added, "I've wired for confirmation. There may be a mistake." "What mistake?" said John. Warde's manner confused him, frightened him. "What mistake, sir?" Warde, twisting the paper, answered miserably "There has been an action, but not in Scaife's part of Africa. Beauregard's Horse were engaged and suffered severely.
So John opened his mouth and sang. The first verse of the lyric went haltingly. Scaife growled to Desmond, "He is going to make an ass of himself." And Desmond, meeting Scaife's eyes, half thought that the speaker wished that John would fail that he grudged him a triumph.
"And I couldn't chuck him, even if I wanted to, which I don't which I don't," he repeated, with an air of satisfying himself rather than John. And John divined that Scaife's hold upon Desmond's affections was not so strong as he had deemed it to be. Desmond continued. "But I want you, too, old Jonathan, and if if " "All right," said John, nobly.
He's cleverer, better at games, ten thousand times better looking, and one day he'll be a big power, and I shall always be a poor man. Why, I I don't mind telling you that I used to keep out of Scaife's way, although he was always awfully civil to me, because he has so much and I so little." "He's not half good enough for you," repeated John, with the Verney obstinacy.
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