“ ‘What’s your candid opinion of Trevor, Philip?’ I demanded.
“He stopped on his way to play bridge, and bit the end off his cigar.
“ ‘As a cricketer,’ he said, ‘or as a man?’
“ ‘Both,’ I answered.
“ ‘Well, my candid opinion is that he learned his game at a first-class public school,’ he replied. ‘And I am further of the opinion, from the few words I spoke to him, that one would have expected to find him here and not in the Sergeants’ Mess. What’s his story? Do you know?’
“ ‘I don’t,’ I shook my head. ‘Haven’t an idea. But you’ve confirmed my own impressions.’
“And there I had to leave it for some months. Periodically I talked to Trevor, deliberately tried to trap him into some admission which would give me a clue to his past, but he was as wary as a fox and as close as an oyster. I don’t know why I took the trouble—after all, it was his business entirely, but the fellow intrigued me. He was such an extraordinarily fine N.C.O., and there was never a sign of his hitting the bottle, which is the end of a good many gentlemen-rankers. Moreover, he didn’t strike me as a fellow who had come a cropper, which is the usual cause of his kind.
“And then one day, when I least expected it, the problem began to solve itself. Philip Blenton rang me up in the morning after breakfast, from a house in the neighbourhood, where he was staying for a couple of two-day matches. Could I possibly spare Sergeant Trevor for the first of them? Against the I Z., who had brought down a snorting team, and Carter—the Oxford blue—had failed the local eleven at the last moment. If I couldn’t they’d have to rake in one of the gardeners, but they weren’t too strong as it was.
“So I sent for Trevor, and asked him if he’d care to play. I saw his eyes gleam for a moment; then he shook his head.
“ ‘I think not, thank you, sir,’ he said, quietly.