It was on the day when those two pistol shots were fired at an Austrian Archduke in the streets of Serajevo that the Masters' match was played out at Kensingtowe. By the early evening the reverberation of the revolver reports had been felt like an earthquake-shock in all the capitals of Europe; and in a failing light the last wicket had fallen at Kensingtowe. So it happened that, while the Emperors of Central Europe were whispering that the Day had come and the slaughter of the youth of Christendom might begin, there was a gathering in Radley's room of those insignificant people whose little doings you have watched at Kensingtowe. They were assembled to drink tea and discuss the match. There were Radley as host; Pennybet, to represent the Old Boys; Doe and I, in fine fettle for the School; and Dr. Chappy, who, having sworn that he was a busy man and couldn't spare the time, sat spilling cigar-ash in the best armchair, and looked like remaining for the rest of the evening.
"Stop quarrelling about the match," said Radley, as he stood with his back to the mantelpiece, "and listen to me. It's a great day, this—a day of triumph. Ray has won the innings victory for the School, and Doe—"
Doe pricked up his ears.
"It's just out—Doe has won the Horace Prize."
At this news there were great congratulations of the poet, who went red with pleasure.
"When you've all finished," said Radley, "I'll read the Prize Poem."
So Radley began faithfully from a manuscript:
"Horace, Odes I, 9. Vides ut Alta Stet.
"White is the mountain, fleeced in snows,
And the pale trees depress their weighted boughs—"
"Oh, spare us!" interrupted Chappy.
"Not a bit," said Radley. "Hark to this: