No. 7 was the jolliest two-room at the Manor. It overlooked the gardens, and was larger than some three-rooms. Then John remembered Scaife and the Duffer.
"Desmond has been with Scaife ever since he came to the house, sir."
"True. But I'm going to give Scaife a room to himself. He's entitled to it as the future Captain of the Eleven. That is—settled. You and Duff must part. He's two forms below you in the school, and never likely to soar much higher than the Second Fifth. Next term you will be in the Sixth, and by the summer I hope Desmond will have joined you. You will find[32] together. Of course Scaife can find with you, if you wish. I've spoken to him and Desmond."
And so, John's fondest hope was realized. When he came back to the Manor, Desmond and he spent much time and rather more money than they could afford in making No. 7 the cosiest room in the house. Consciences were salved thus:—John bought for Desmond some picture or other decorative object which cost more money than he felt justified in spending on himself; then Desmond made John a similar present. It was whipping the devil round the stump, John said, but oh! the delight of giving his friend something he coveted, and receiving presents from him in return.
During this term, Scaife became one of the school racquet-players. In many ways he was admittedly the most remarkable boy at Harrow, the Admirable Crichton who appears now and again in every decade. He won the high jump and the hurdle-race. These triumphs kept him out of mischief, and occupied every minute of his time. He associated with the "Bloods," and one day Desmond told John that he considered himself to have been "dropped" by this tremendous swell. John discreetly held his tongue; but in his own mind, as before, he was convinced that Scaife and Desmond would come together again. The inexorable circumstance of Scaife's superiority at games had separated the boys, but only for a brief season. Desmond would become a "Blood" soon, and then it would be John's turn to be "dropped." Being a philosopher, our hero did not worry too much over the future, but made the most of the present, with a grateful and joyous heart. In his humility, he was unable to measure his influence on Desmond. In athletic pursuits an inferior, in all intellectual attainments he was pulling far ahead of his friend. The artful Warde had a word to say, which gave John food for thought.
"You can never equal your friend at cricket or footer, Verney. If you wish to score, it is time to play your own game."
Shortly after this, John realized that Warde had read Cæsar aright. Charles Desmond's son, as has been said, acclaimed quality wherever he met it. John's intellectual advance amazed and then fascinated him. When John discovered this, he worked harder. Warde smiled. John ran second for the Prize Poem. He had genuine feeling for Nature, but he lacked as yet the technical ability to display it. A more practised versifier won the prize; but John's taste for history and literature secured him the Bourchier, not without a struggle which whetted to keenness every faculty he possessed. More, to his delight, he realized that his enthusiasm was contagious. Cæsar entered eagerly into his friend's competitions; struggle and strife appealed to the Irishman. He talked over John's themes, read his verses, and predicted triumphs. Warde told John that Cæsar Desmond might have stuck in the First Fifth, had it not been for this quickening of the clay. The days succeeded each other swiftly and smoothly. Warde was seen to smile more than ever during this term. Certain big fellows who opposed him were leaving or had already left. Bohun, now Head of the House, was a sturdy, straightforward monitor, not a famous athlete, but able to hold his own in any field of endeavour. Just before the Christmas holidays, Warde discovered, to his horror, that the drainage at the Manor was out of order. At great expense a new and perfect system was laid down. At last Warde told himself his house might be pronounced sanitary within and without.
When the summer term came, Desmond joined John in the Sixth Form. They were entitled to single rooms, but they asked and obtained permission to remain in No. 7. Desmond was invested with the right to fag, and the right to "find." How blessed a privilege the right to find is, boys who have enjoyed it will attest. The cosy meals in one's own room, the pleasant talk, the sense of intimacy, the freedom from restraint. Custom stales all good things, but how delicious they taste at first!
The privilege of fagging is not, however, unadulterated bliss. When Warde said to Cæsar, "Well, Desmond, how do you like ordering about your slave?" Desmond replied, ruefully, "Well, sir, little Duff has broken my inkstand, spilt the ink on our new carpet, and let Verney's bullfinch escape. I think, on the whole, I'd as lief wait on myself."
Early in June it became plain that unless the unforeseen occurred, Harrow would have a strong Eleven, and that Desmond would be a member of it. John and Fluff were playing in the Sixth Form game; but John had no chance of his Flannels, although he had improved in batting and bowling, thanks to Warde's indefatigable coaching. Scaife hardly ever spoke to John now, but occasionally he came into No. 7 to talk to Desmond. Upon these rare occasions John would generally find an excuse for leaving the room. Always, when he returned, Desmond seemed to be restless and perplexed. His admiration for Scaife had waxed rather than waned. Indeed, John himself, detesting Scaife—for it had come to that—fearing him on Desmond's account, admired him notwithstanding: captivated by his amazing grace, good looks, and audacity. His recklessness held even the "Bloods" spellbound. A coach ran through Harrow in the afternoons of that season. 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. He won it easily, disguised as the coachman—a make-up clever enough to deceive even those who were in the secret. His friends knew that he kept two polo-ponies at Wembley. One afternoon he dared to play in a match against the Nondescripts. Warde's daughter, just out of the schoolroom, happened to be present, and she rubbed her lovely eyes when she saw Scaife careering over the field. Scaife laughed when he saw her; but before she left the ground a note had reached her.