"And my governor says," Scaife added, "that he's not a rich man, nothing much to speak of in the way of income over and above his screw as a Cabinet Minister."
Scaife moved away, and John could hear him say to another boy, in an easy, friendly tone, "Mr. Desmond told Cæsar that he wanted to meet me—very civil of him—eh?"
Presently John was in line waiting to pass by the steps.
"Verney?"
"Here, sir."
He was hurrying by, with a backward glance at the great man. Suddenly Cæsar's father beckoned, nodding cheerily. John ascended the steps, to feel the grasp of a strong hand, to hear a ringing voice.
"You're John Verney's nephew. Just so. I think I should have spotted you, even if Harry had not told me you were in his form. You must lunch with us. Cut along, now."
So John was dismissed, brim-full of happiness, which almost overflowed when Cæsar met him with an eager—
"I'm so glad, Verney. I say, the governor's a nailer at picking out the old names, isn't he?"
So John ate his luncheon in distinguished company, and felt himself for the first time to be somebody. As the youngest guest present, to him was accorded the place of honour, next the most charming host in Christendom, who put him at ease in a jiffy. How good the cutlets and the pheasant tasted! And how the talk warmed the cockles of his heart! The brand of the Crossed Arrows shone upon all topics. Who could expect, or desire, aught else! Cæsar's governor seemed to know what every Harrovian had done worth the doing. Easily, fluently, he discoursed of triumphs won at home, abroad, in the camp, on the hustings, at the bar, in the pulpit. And his anecdotes, which illustrated every phase of life, how pat to the moment they were! One boy complained ruefully of having spent three terms under a form-master who had "ragged" him. Charles Desmond sympathized—