In the following week Baltimore played for the second eleven, took eight wickets for twenty runs, and himself made thirty. A fortnight later he was down on the boards in the first eleven for the Lower Templeton match. Now, indeed, the whole school was talking about him, masters and boys alike. His batting was another matter from his bowling. There was no doubt at all that he was a natural cricketer. Mr. Rochester, the games master, said he was the most promising cricketer that he had yet seen at Thompson’s, remarkable style for so young a boy, an extraordinarily fine eye. The Lower Templeton match was the match of the season. Lower Templeton was a private school some ten miles away, and Thompson’s strongest rivals; they had more boys than Thompson’s, and two times out of three they won the cricket match. They were entirely above themselves and jeered at Thompson’s, implying that they showed the most wonderful condescension in coming over to play at all. Consequently there burned in the heart of every boy in Thompson’s—yes, and in the heart of every master and every servant—a longing desire that the swollen-headed idiots should be beaten.

Boys are exceedingly susceptible to atmosphere, and in no time at all the first weeks of Baltimore’s stay at Thompson’s were entirely forgotten. He was a new creature, a marvel, a miracle. Young Corkery was heard at tea to offer him his last sardine, although only a fortnight before he had belaboured his posterior with hair-brushes. Cracky Brown took in him now a fatherly interest, and inflicted on him only the lightest fagging and inquired anxiously many times a day about his health. Jeremy surrendered absolutely to this glamour, but it was to more than mere glamour that he was surrendering. He did not realize it, but he had never in all his life before had any friend who had been a success. His father and mother, his sister Mary, his Uncle Samuel—none of these could be said to be in the eyes of the world successes. And at school it had been the same; his best friend, Riley, was quite undistinguished in every way, and the master whom he liked best, old Podgy Johnson, was more than undistinguished—he was derided.

It was not that he liked vulgar applause for his friend and himself enjoyed to bathe in its binding light. It was, quite simply, that he loved his friend to be successful, that it was “fun” for him, amusing, exciting, and warmed him all over. No longer need he feel any pity for Baltimore; Baltimore was happy now; he must be.

It must be confessed that Baltimore showed no especial signs of being happy when the great day arrived. At breakfast he accepted quite calmly the portions of potted meat, marmalade, sardines and pickles offered him by adoring admirers, and ate them all on the same plate quite impassively.

After dinner Jeremy and Riley took their places on the grass in front of the pavilion and waited for the game to begin. Riley was now very submissive, compelled to admit that after all Jeremy had once again showed his remarkable judgment. Who but Jeremy would have seen in Baltimore on his arrival at Thompson’s the seeds of greatness? He was forced to confess that he himself had been blind to them. With their straw hats tilted over their eyes, lying full-length on the grass, a bag of sweets between them, they were as happy as thieves.

In strict truth Jeremy’s emotions were not those precisely of happiness. He was too deeply excited, too passionately anxious for Baltimore’s success to be really happy. He could not hear the sweets crunching between his teeth for the beating of his heart. What followed was what any reader of school stories would expect to follow. Had Baltimore been precisely the handsome blue-eyed hero of one of Dean Farrar’s epics of boyhood, he could not have behaved more appropriately. Thompson’s went in first, and disaster instantly assailed them. Six wickets were down for ten owing to a diabolical fast bowler whom Lower Templeton had brought with them. Cracky Brown was the only Thompsonian who made any kind of a stand, and he had no one to stay with him until Baltimore came in and (Cracky content merely to keep up his wicket) made thirty-five. Thompson’s were all out for fifty-six. Lower Templeton then went in, and, because Cracky did not at once put on Baltimore to bowl, made thirty-four for two wickets. Baltimore then took the remaining eight wickets for seventeen. Lower Templeton were all out for fifty-one.

The excitement during the second innings had to be seen to be believed. Even old Thompson, who was known for his imperturbable temper, was seen to wipe his brow continually with a yellow handkerchief.

Thompson’s went in, and four wickets fell for eleven. Baltimore went in at fifth wicket, and made thirty-nine. Thompson’s were all out for sixty-one, and were sixty-six ahead of Lower Templeton. This was a good lead, and the hearts of Thompson’s beat high. Baltimore started well and took six of the Lower Templeton wickets for twenty; then he obviously tired. Cracky took him off, and Lower Templeton had three-quarters of an hour’s pure joy. As the school clock struck half-past six Lower Templeton had made sixty runs for eight wickets. Cracky then put Baltimore on again, and he took the remaining wickets for no runs. Thompson’s were victorious by six runs, and Baltimore was carried shoulder-high, amongst the plaudits of the surrounding multitudes, up to the school buildings.