One day when the summer term was about a month old a very dreary game of cricket was pursuing its slow course in third game. The infants concerned in it were sleepily watching the efforts of one after another of their number to bowl Corkery Minimus. Corkery was not, as cricket is considered at Lord’s, a great cricketer, but he was a stolid, phlegmatic youth, too big for third game and too lazy to wake up and so push forward into second. He stood stolidly at his wicket, making a run or two occasionally in order to poach the bowling. Jeremy was sitting in the pavilion, his cap tilted forward over his eyes, nearly asleep, and praying that Corkery might stay in all the afternoon and so save him from batting. One of the younger masters, Newsom, a youth fresh from Cambridge, was presiding over the afternoon and longing for six o’clock.

Suddenly he heard a thin and weedy voice at his ear:

“Please, sir, do you think I might bowl? I think I could get him out.”

Newsom pulled himself in from his dreams and gazed wearily down upon the grimy face of Baltimore.

“You!” he exclaimed. Baltimore was not beloved by the masters.

“Yes, sir,” Baltimore said, his cold, green eyes fixed earnestly upon Newsom’s face.

“Oh, I suppose so,” Newsom said wearily; “anything for a change.”

Had anyone been watching Baltimore at that moment they would have seen a curious thing. A new spirit inhabited the boy’s body. Something seemed suddenly to stiffen him; his legs were no longer shambly, his eyes no longer dead. He was in a moment moving as though he knew his ground and as though he had first and royal right to be there.

Of course, no one noticed this. There was a general titter when it was seen that Baltimore had the ball in his hand. Corkery turned round and sniggered to the wicket-keeper, and the wicket-keeper sniggered back.

Baltimore paid no attention to anybody. He ran to the wicket and delivered an underhand lob. A second later Corkery’s bails were on the ground. Again, had anyone noticed, he would have perceived that the delivery of that ball was no ordinary one, that the twist of the arm as it was delivered was definite and assured and by no means accidental.

No one noticed anything except that Corkery was at length out; although he had been batting for an hour and ten minutes, he had made only nine runs. Baltimore’s next three balls took three wickets, Jeremy’s amongst them. No one was very enthusiastic about this. The balls were considered “sneaks,” and just the kind that Pimply Percy would bowl. Corkery, in fact, was extremely indignant and swore he would “take it out” of Pimples in the dormitory that evening.

Very odd was Baltimore over this. No sign of any feeling whatever. Jeremy expected that he would be full that evening of his prowess. Not a word.

Jeremy himself was proud of his young friend. It was as though he had possessed an ugly and stupid puppy who, it was suddenly discovered, could balance spoons on the end of his nose.

He told Riley about it. Riley was disgusted. “You and your Percy,” he said. “You can jolly well choose, Stocky. It’s him or me. He’s all right now. The other fellows leave him alone. Why can’t you drop him?”

Jeremy could not explain why, but he did not want to drop him. He liked having something to look after.

Next week something more occurred. Baltimore was pushed up into second game. It was, indeed, very necessary that he should be. Had he stayed in third game that galaxy of all the cricketing talents would have been entirely demoralized; no one could withstand him. Wickets fell faster than ninepins. He gained no popularity for this. He was, indeed, beaten in the box-room with hair-brushes for bowling “sneaks.” He took his beating without a word. He seemed suddenly to have found his footing. He held up his head, occasionally washed his face, and stared superciliously about him.

Jeremy now was far keener about young Baltimore’s career than he had ever been about his own. Securing an afternoon “off,” he went and watched his friend’s first appearance in second game. Knowing nothing about cricket, he was nevertheless clever enough to detect that there was something natural and even inevitable in Baltimore’s cricket. Not only in his bowling, but also in his fielding. He recognized it, perhaps, because it was the same with himself in football. Awkward and ill at ease as he was on the cricket field, he moved with perfect confidence in Rugby, knowing at once where to go and what to do. So it was now with Baltimore. In that game he took eight wickets for eighteen runs.

The school began now to talk about the new prodigy. There were, of course, two sides in the matter, many people declaring that they were “sneaky,” low-down balls that anybody could bowl if they were dishonest enough to do so. Others said that there was nothing low-down about it, and that young Baltimore would be in first game before he knew where he was. On his second day in second game Baltimore took Smith Major’s wicket first ball, and Smith Major had batted twice for the first eleven. After this the great Cracky himself came and watched him. He said nothing, but next day Baltimore was down for first game.

Jeremy now was bursting with pride. He tried to show Baltimore how immensely pleased he was.

In a corner after tea he talked to him.

“There’s never been a new kid his first term in first game before, I don’t think,” said Jeremy, regardless of grammar. “They’ll play you for the second eleven, I expect.”

“They’re sure to,” said Baltimore calmly; “and then they’ll play me for the first.”

Strange that Jeremy, who hated above all things “side” in his fellow human beings, was not repelled by this. Here in Baltimore was the feu sacrÉ. Jeremy recognized its presence and bowed to it. Small boys are always fond of anything of which they are proud, and so Jeremy now, in spite of the green eyes, the arrogant, aloof attitude, the unpleasant personal habits, had an affection for Baltimore—the affection of the hen whose ugly duckling turns out a swan.

“You don’t seem very pleased about it,” he said, looking at Baltimore curiously.

“What’s there to be pleased about?” said Baltimore coldly. “Of course, I knew I could play cricket. No one in this rotten place can play. I can bat, too, only they always put me in last.”

“Will you walk out to Pocker’s after dinner to-morrow?” Jeremy asked.

“All right,” said Baltimore indifferently.