Harold Monro.
CHAPTER I: THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS
It is good to dream; but "Man proposes: God in His time disposes," and Gordon's dream was scattered at its dawn. Hardly a week later a great nation forgot its greatness, and Europe trembled on the brink of war. During those days of awful suspense, when it was uncertain whether England would enter into the contest or not, Gordon could hardly keep still with nervous excitement. When on the Sunday before Bank Holiday J.L. Garvin poured out his warning to the Liberal Government, it seemed for a moment as if they were going to back out.
On the Tuesday Gordon went to the Oval; Lovelace major was playing against Surrey. In the Strand he ran into Ferrers.
"Come on, sir I am just off to the Oval to see Lovelace's brother bat. Great fellow! Captain of the House my first term."
"Right you are. Come on. There's a bus!"
For hours, or what seemed like hours, two painfully correct professionals pottered about, scoring by ones and twos. Gordon longed for them to get out. A catch was missed in the slips.
"Surrey are the worst slip-fielding side in England," announced Gordon fiercely. The Oval crowd, always so ferociously partisan, moved round him uneasily.
At last a roar went up, as Hitch knocked the leg stump flying out of the ground. Then Lovelace came in. He looked just as he had looked on the green Fernhurst sward, only perhaps a little broader. He was wearing the magenta and black of the School House scarf. He was an amateur of the R.E. Foster type—wrist shots past cover, and an honest off-drive.