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Updated: June 23, 2025
This mixture of the sects ranked high among the trials of Lady Eynesford's position, and contained precious opportunities for Miss Scaife's inquiring mind. It seems true beyond question that moral estimation counts for more in the likings of women than in those of men.
It will be guessed that the enthusiasm, the uproar, the tumultuous excitement were even greater than on a similar occasion some fifteen years before. But, to his amazement, Desmond, not Scaife, was made the particular hero of the hour. Scaife's display of temper festered in the hearts of boys who can forgive anything sooner than low breeding.
None the less, the first verse, sung feebly, with wrong phrasing and imperfect articulation, revealed the quality of the boy's voice; and this quality Desmond recognized, as he would have recognized a fine painting or a bit of perfect porcelain. All his short life his father had trained him to look for and acclaim quality, whether in things animate or inanimate. He caught hold of Scaife's arm.
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.
John caught Scaife's eye. "You don't believe that he's in love with his job, as he told us?" "Skittles that!" John looked solemn. He had a bomb to throw. "Skittles, is it?" he echoed. The other boys turned to listen. "Do you think he'd take a better-paid billet?" Scaife laughed derisively. "Of course he would, like a shot. But he's not likely to get the chance."
Time and Scaife's fielding saved Harrow from defeat. The fact of a draw had significance. A draw spelled compromise. John had indulged in a superstitious fancy common enough to persons older than he. "If Harrow wins," he put it to himself, "Caesar will triumph; if Eton wins, Caesar will lose."
I was on the right track, and I jammed that down in my mind and vowed never to forget it. The last word was with Peter Pienaar. Scaife's men would be posted now, but there was no sign of a soul. The house stood as open as a market-place for anybody to observe.
He had made eleven runs, and kept up his wicket during a crisis. Harrow cheered him loudly. And then came the terrible moment of the morning. Scaife went in when Fluff's wicket fell. The ground had improved, but it was still treacherous. The fast bowler sent down a straight one. It shot under Scaife's bat and spread-eagled his stumps.
"What you say is utter rot; but it was decent of you to say it, and I'm glad that you and I are going to be in the same house." For his life John could not help adding, "And Scaife, you forget Scaife?" Jealousy pierced him as Scaife's name slipped out. "Yes, there's the Demon. I always liked him." "And he likes you." "Does he? Good old Demon! I like to be liked. That's the Irish in me.
John crept back under cover of the shrubberies. He saw the light flicker out of Scaife's window, and shine more steadily in the next room. The window of this room was open, and John could hear the voice of Warde and the Head of the House. John waited. And then the light shone in Desmond's room. John crouched against the wall, trembling.
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