"Dear Miss Warde,
"I am sure that you have too much sporting blood in your veins to tell your father that you have seen me playing polo.
"Yours very sincerely,
"Reginald Scaife."
To run such risks seemed to John madness; to Desmond it indicated genius.
"There never was such a fellow," said Cæsar to John.
When Cæsar spoke in that tone John knew that Scaife had but to hold up a finger, and that Cæsar would come to him even as a bird drops into the jaws of a snake. Cæsar was strong, but the Demon was stronger.
After the Zingari Match, Desmond got his Flannels. He was cheered at six Bill. Everybody liked him; everybody was proud of him, proud of his father, proud of the long line of Desmonds, all distinguished, good-looking, and with charming manners. The School roared its satisfaction. John stood a little back, by the cloisters. Cæsar ran past him, down the steps and into the street, hat in hand, blushing like a girl. John felt a lump in his throat. He thrilled because glory shone about his friend; but the poignant reflection came, that Cæsar was running swiftly, out of the Yard and out of his own life. And before lock-up he saw, what he had seen in fancy a thousand times, Cæsar arm-in-arm with Scaife and the Captain of the Eleven, Cæsar in his new straw,[33] looking happier than John had ever seen him, Cæsar, the "Blood," rolling triumphantly down the High Street, the envied of all beholders, the hero of the hour.
John called himself a selfish beast, because he had wished for one terrible moment, wished with heart and soul, that Cæsar was unpopular and obscure.
FOOTNOTES:
[31] The place of execution.