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Updated: June 23, 2025
And, by the way, you're getting into the habit of hanging about Caesar, which bores him to death. Stop it." But to this John made no reply. He read dislike in Scaife's bold eyes, detected it in his clear peremptory voice, felt it in the cruel twist of the arm. And he had brains enough to know that Scaife was not the boy to dislike any one without reason.
Damer's played collectively; the Manorites rather waited upon the individual. When Scaife's chance came, so it was predicted, he would go through the Damer's centre as irresistibly as a Russian battleship cuts through a fleet of fishing-smacks. Rutford being absent, Dumbleton, the butler, stood well to the fore.
In any case, during the last three weeks of the term, John saw less of Caesar, and more more, indeed, than he wanted of the Duffer and Fluff. And then came the paralysing news that Desmond had promised to spend ten days with Scaife's people, that a Professional had been hired, and that both boys were going to give their undivided energies to cricket.
When the bottle was torn from Scaife's hands, the mischief had been done. The boy had swallowed a quantity of raw spirit. Till now the whisky had been much diluted with mineral water. "I'm going to him," yelled Scaife, struggling with his friends. "And I'm going to take a cricket stump with me. Le'me go le'me go!" The Caterpillar surveyed him with disgust.
The last Saturday of the summer term saw the Manor cock-house at cricket: almost a foregone conclusion, and therefore not particularly interesting to outsiders. During the morning Scaife gave his farewell "brekker" at the Creameries; a banquet of the Olympians to which John received an invitation. He accepted because Desmond made a point of his so doing; but he was quite aware that beneath the veneer of the Demon's genial smile lay implacable hatred and resentment. The breakfast in itself struck John as ostentatious. Scaife's father sent quails,
"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.
Everything was tried, even to the expedient of flicking Scaife's body with a wet towel; but the boy lay motionless, his face horribly red against the white pillow, his heavy breathing growing more laboured and louder. And despite the perfume of the eau de Cologne which had drenched pillow and pyjamas, the smell of whisky spread terror to the crowd. If Rutford came in, he would swoop on the truth.
Caesar, indeed, was demonstratively glad to see him, and dragged him off next day to walk to a certain bridge where a few short weeks before the boys had carved their names upon the wooden railing, surrounding them with a circle and the Crossed Arrows. But Caesar could talk of nothing else but Scaife and cricket. They had both "come on" tremendously. Scaife's people had a splendid cricket-ground.
Then he got up, and followed the Caterpillar out of the room. The passage was empty. The Caterpillar sniffed as if the atmosphere in Scaife's room had been polluted. "One has nothing to regret," he remarked. "Scaife has good points, and er bad. You've noticed his hands eh? Very unfinished! And his foot short, but broad."
After this he'll do his work in his own room, or I'll do mine in the passage." Before Desmond could speak, Scaife had whirled out of the room, slamming the door. John looked stupefied with dismay. The Caterpillar shrugged his shoulders. Then he said slowly "Scaife's father pronounces 'connoisseur' 'connoysure, and so does Scaife." Desmond stood up, flushed and distressed, but emphatic.
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