But the heart of youth is essentially fickle; and Gordon's lambent spirit, which had for some time almost ceased to strive for anything, suddenly swept round to the other extreme, and was filled with the desire to reassert itself at all costs. Suddenly, almost without realising it, Gordon was fired with the wish to finish his school career strongly, not to give way before adversity, but to end as he had begun. He would be the Ulysses of Tennyson, not of Plato. "Though much is taken, much abides ... 'tis not too late to seek a newer world." ... Like a tiger he looked round, growling for his prey, and his opportunity was not slow in coming.

Ferrers was sitting in his study one afternoon, talking very despondently about the general atmosphere at Fernhurst.

"It is not what I had hoped for," he said; "in fact, it is quite the reverse. The young masters are gone, the bloods are gone. The new leaders are not sure of their feet, and these old pedants have taken their chance of getting back their old power. And the whole school is discontented, fed up; no keenness anywhere. The masters tell them: 'If you aren't good at games you'll be useless in the trenches.' Wretched boys begin to believe them. They think they are wrong, when really they are just beginning to see the light. They are beginning to look at games as they are. There's no glory attached to them now—no true victories—glamour is all removed. They see games as they are, see the things they have been worshipping all these years. But the masters tell them games are right, they are wrong; it is their duty to do as others did before them. Oh, I wish we could smash those cracked red spectacles through which every Public School boy is forced to look at life."

"But can't we, sir?"

"It would be no good; they wouldn't believe you. I am getting sick. For years I have been shouting out, and trying to prove to them what's wrong. They won't believe. They are blind, and it is the masters' fault, curse them. There they sit, talking and doing nothing. I begin to worship that man, I forget his name, who said: 'Those who can, do—those who can't, teach.' It sums up our modern education. It is all hypocrisy and show."

"But, sir," said Gordon, "we can't do much, but let's do what we can. Now, when the glamour has fallen off athleticism, let's show the school what wretched things they have been serving so long. If we can in any way put a check on this nonsense now, if in Fernhurst only, we shall be doing something. After the war we shall have a fine Fifteen winning matches, and the school will feel its feet. We must stop it now—now, when there is no glamour, when the school is tired of endless 'uppers,' and sick of the whole business. Now's the time."

"Yes; but how? This sort of thing doesn't happen in a night."

"I know; but we can sow the seeds now. The Stoics is the thing. We can have a debate on the 'Value of Athletics,' and, heavens! I bet the whole House will vote against them. The House is sick of it all. We'll carry the motion. We'll get the best men to speak. We'll give sound arguments. Then we'll have formed a precedent. It will appear in the school magazine that the Stoics, the representative society of Fernhurst thought, has decided that the blind worship of games is harmful. It will make the school think. It's a start, sir, it's a start."

"You are right, Caruthers, you are right. We'll flutter the Philistine dovecots."

Gordon had not the slightest doubt about the success of the scheme. He himself was at the very summit of his power. He had been making scores for the Eleven out of all proportion to his skill; he was almost certain for the batting cup. His influence was not to be discounted. He could get the House to vote as he wanted; he was sure of it. He told Davenport of the scheme, and he also was enthusiastic.

"By Jove! that's excellent. It's about time the school realised that caps and pots are not the alpha and omega of our existence."

The air was full of the din of onset.

Nearly the whole House attended the meeting, and the outhouses rolled up in good numbers, more out of curiosity than anything else. They thought the whole thing rather silly. There had been a debate more than two years back on "whether games should be compulsory." Only six had voted against compulsion. "The Bull" remembered this, and came to the debate, strong in his faith in the past. He wanted to see this upstart Ferrers squashed.

Ferrers himself opened the discussion with typical exuberance.

"How much longer," he finished, "are we going to waste our time, our energy, our force on kicking a football? We have no strength for anything else. And all the time, while Germany has been plotting against us, piling up armaments, we have been cheering on Chelsea and West Ham United. Look at the result. We were not prepared, we are only just getting ready now. And why? Because we had wasted our time on trivial things, instead of things that mattered; and unless we turn away from all this truck, trash and cant about athleticism, England is not going to stand for anything worth having."

He sat down amid tempestuous applause. The audience were really excited. They had gradually grown sick of games during the last two terms, and now apparently they had the best authority for doing so. Everyone likes being congratulated.

The opposition suffered in having Burgess to support them. We have heard of him before. Years had not altered him much. He was the same conceited, self-righteous puppet as of old. People got tired of listening to him. There was a sound of shuffling, a window began to bang with unnecessary noise. He sat down to an apathetic recognition.

Davenport then made a very biting speech against games.

"The Bull" was surprised to see him speaking on Ferrer's side. He was in the Second Fifteen, and a very useful outside.

"Whatever we may have done before the war," he cried, "and we did many foolish things, it is quite obvious that now this worship of sport must cease. Let us hope it is not revived. We are sent here to be educated—that is, to have our minds trained; instead of that, we have our bodies developed, our minds starved. We play footer in the afternoon, we have gym. at all hours of the day, and other experiments in voluntary compulsion, such as puntabouts after breakfast. The result is we work at our play, and play at our work...." He elaborated the scheme in an amusing way. There was a lot of laughter. "The Bull" looked fierce. Rudd, who had for a "rag" insisted on speaking for the opposition, discoursed on the value of "mens sana in corpore sano." Everyone shrieked with laughter.

He finished up thus:

"Well, look at me. I am the hardest-working fellow in the school." A roar of laughter went up. Rudd had nearly been deprived of his position of school prefect for doing so little work. "I am also a fine athlete. To-day I clean bowled two people on the pick-up, and hit a splendid four over short-slip's head. I am what I am because of our excellent system of work and play. Look at me, I say, and vote for athleticism."

Buffoonery is often more powerful than the truest oratory.

The motion was put before the House.

A lot of people spoke. All in favour of the motion. It was great fun watching "the Bull's" face grow gradually darker. Morgan said that only fools and Philistines cared for games. They were amusing to pass an afternoon with, and because one had to have exercise, but that was all.

Gordon waited till near the end, then he got up.

"I must first congratulate everyone on the broadminded view they have taken of this important question; and I think it is an infallible proof that the days of athletic domination are ended. For, after all, is it any wonder that clear-thinking men like A.C. Benson pull our system to pieces, when we have to own that for the last twenty years at least the only thing Public School boys have cared about is games? And with such a belief they go out into life, to find the important posts seized by men who have really worked. No one works at a Public School. People who do are despised. If they happen to be good at games as well, they are tolerated. It is a condemnation of the whole system. And, after all, what are games? Merely a form of exercise; we have got to keep our bodies healthy, because, as Mr Rudd so wisely put it, a healthy mind means a healthy body. Games were invented because people wanted to enjoy their exercise. We all enjoy games. I love cricket; but that does not make me worship it. I like eating; but I don't make a god of a chocolate Éclair. We can like a thing without bowing down to it, and that's how we have got to treat games. Some fool said 'the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton'; and a fool he was, too. Games don't win battles, but brains do, and brains aren't trained on the footer field. It is time we realised that; and I think from the way the speaking has gone to-night, the school is beginning to understand. Now is the chance to show that you think so. There are no good athletes in the school to-day, the Eleven's rotten and the Fifteen is worse. Men like Lovelace major were almost worth worshipping, because they were men; they made athletics appear grand, because they were such glorious creatures themselves; but there are none of that sort here now. We can see games as they really are without any false mist of sentiment, and we can see that for years we have been worshipping something utterly wrong."

Gordon's speech really made an impression. After all, he was a blood, one of the best all-round athletes in the school, and if he thought like that, there must be something in what so many people were saying.

The question was put to the vote, and was carried by an enormous majority.

"The Bull" looked for a moment at the crowd of faces that had spurned the things he admired, looked as one who saw nothing, turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

"Well, we won! Glorious!" said Ferrers.

"Yes," said Gordon, "'we have lit this day a candle that, by the grace of God, shall never be put out'!"

He went down to hall, flushed with triumph. After all, there were some compensations for everything; but he could not remove the feeling that out of all the change and turmoil of his Fernhurst career he had retained nothing tangible. He had written his name upon water; he had as yet found nothing that would accompany him to the end of his journey. He knew that his friendship for Morcombe would lead to nothing: very few school friendships last more than a year or so after one or other has left. He thought of Byron's line: "And friendships were formed too romantic to last." It was too true, he had yet to find his real ideal. He was about to begin the serious battle of life. He was standing on the threshold. The night was black before him; he had no beacon fire to lead him. He dimly perceived that beauty was the goal to which he was striving. But he had only a vague comprehension of its meaning. He had no philosophy. Doubtless in the end the Roman Church, the mother of wanderers, would take him to her breast. But that was a long way off yet, and he wished to bring himself to the final surrender, strong and clean-hearted, not a vessel broken on the back-wash of existence. And yet he had no true guide for the years that stretched before him. This last episode of the debate seemed to bring it home to him more clearly. His life had so far been composed of isolated triumphs and isolated defeats, which had not yet so combined one with another as to form a bedrock of experience which would serve as a standard for future judgments. He had made merry, careless of what the next day would bring. He had fought with "the Bull"; and in the struggle he had achieved some things, and failed to achieve more. He had at one time prayed for the long contention to cease; at another he had laughed in the face of his enemy, flushed with the joy of battle. Gazing back on his past, he seemed to stand as a spectator, watching a person who was himself and yet not himself, going through a life of many varied experiences, now plunging in the mud, now soaring to the heights. But the incidents only affected him in a dull, subconscious manner. He had learnt nothing from them. His school days would soon be over, and yet he felt as though he were beginning life all over again. He had found nothing that could stand the wear of time and chance.

But still there remained a few more weeks of Fernhurst; whatever happened, he swore that he would finish as befitted a king. "Samson would quit himself like Samson." There would be time enough for doubts and introspection when it was all over, when for the last time the familiar eight-forty swept him out of Fernhurst's life for ever. At present it was his to leave behind him a name that would survive a little while, "nor all glut the devouring grave." It should be remembered of him that during his day of power he had never once given way, had stood his ground, had never known the poignancy of the "second-best."

Until now Gordon had never really quarrelled with anyone in his own house. All his encounters had been with outhouse men or "the Bull": he might have helped to make the House feel independent of the school, but he had always aimed at the unity of the House's aim. It was a pity that his last contest should have been with the head of his own house.

Rudd was a bad head; there could be no doubt about that. His dormitory made him apple-pie beds, and soaked his candle in water, so that it would not light. The day-room ragged him mercilessly. Gordon had never minded. In comparison with Rudd's weakness his own strength shone the more. It made him so essentially the big power in the House. But things reached a limit shortly after half term, when Rudd tried to drag him in to help him in his troubles, and shelter behind the rest of the prefects.

It all arose from a most "footling" source. Rudd was taking hall, and the usual music hall performance was in full swing. Bray had asked to borrow some ink, and having once gained a pretext for walking about, was dancing up and down the floor singing What would the Seaside be without the Ladies? Everyone was, of course, talking. Now a certain Stockbrew, imagining himself a poet, immortalised the occasion with the following stirring lyric:—

Like the famous quatrain The Purple Cow, this poem immediately achieved a success totally out of proportion to its merits. It was passed slowly down the table. Finally it reached Bray.

"Ah, Rudd," he said, "I believe this is meant for you."

Rudd read it, and flushed a dusky red.

"Who wrote this?"

Proudly the author claimed his work.

"Well—er—let me see," said Rudd: "it is er—gross impertinence. Come and see me after breakfast to-morrow."

The poet sat down, and his friends showered condolences on him; Bray recommenced his wanderings.

That night in second hall Rudd called a prefects' meeting to discuss the affair. He pointed out that it was gross insolence to a prefect, and that a prefects' beating was the recognised punishment for such an offence. Gordon protested vehemently.

"But, damn it all, Rudd, if you are such a weak-kneed ass as to be ragged by a fool like Stockbrew, you jolly well oughtn't to be head of the House. And, by the way, we haven't heard this masterpiece of satire read out yet."

"I don't think there's any need," said Rudd.

"Well, I think there is," said Gordon. "I am not going to see a kid beaten for an unknown piece of cheek. Read the thing out!"

With many blushes Rudd read it out.

"Ah, jolly suitable, too," said Foster. "What you want is a nurse. Good lord, man, can't you look after yourself in hall. Jolly ignominious, isn't it, having to call up a lot of prefects to back you up? Fine example to the rest of the House, isn't it?"

"Well," stammered Rudd, "I don't pretend to be a strong prefect."

"You certainly aren't," said Foster.

"That's beside the point," said Rudd. "I have been cheeked by Stockbrew, and I am a prefect. The punishment for that is a prefects' beating. There'll be a pre.'s meeting here to-morrow at eight, and if you have anything to grouse about, go to the Chief."

He flounced out of the room like a heroine of melodrama.

"I don't think we'll go to Chief," said Gordon, "he would be utterly fed up. But I am jolly well not going to be made an ass of by Rudd. Think what fools we shall look trotting about on Rudd's apron strings like policemen after a cook."

"Well, what can we do?" said Davenport.

"Do? Why, make Rudd look a bigger ass than we. We have got to give this lad a pre.'s beating. There's no way out of it. We have got to. But if we let the House know about this, a crowd will collect; Rudd will go first and make two fairly effective shots. We shall then proceed in rotation. We will just tap him; the crowd will roar with laughter; it will be damned amusing, and Rudd will look a most sanguinary ass."

"I see," said Foster. "Hat's off to the man with the brain."

"But is it quite the game?" suggested Davenport, a stickler for etiquette.

"Is it the game for Rudd to drag us in to back him up? In this world, unfortunately, two blacks invariably make a white."

"I suppose it's all right," said Davenport.

No one else made any objection. Foster and Gordon usually got their own way. The prefects dispersed. Gordon went to tell Morgan the glad tidings. The news was all round the House in a few minutes. Rudd was generally regarded as a priceless fool; it was sure to be good sport.

Then next morning Stockbrew presented himself at Rudd's study. He was terribly overcome at the sight of so formidable a gathering. He wished he had padded. No one had told him of what was to happen. It would have spoilt the situation.

The prefects sat in chairs round the room; Rudd, terribly nervous, was perched on the table. He delivered as short a lecture as possible on the sacredness of the prefectorial dignity and the insignificance of the day-room frequenter.

In a procession they moved to the V. A green. Stockbrew led, Rudd followed, cane in hand. It was all very impressive. Round the V. A green runs a stone path; a good many people were clustered there; there were faces in the V. B class-room just opposite; in the library on the right; even in the Sixth Form class-room on the left.

"Quite an audience for this degrading business," sighed Foster.

"'Butchered to make a Roman holiday,'" said Davenport, who loved a stale quotation. Stockbrew bent over the chain that ran round two sides of the green. Rudd delivered two fairly accurate shots. Stockbrew stirred uncomfortably. He had dim recollections of Claremont reading a poem by Mrs Browning on "the great God Pan" and how cruel it was to "make a poet out of a man!" He saw her meaning now. Then the farce began.

Gordon went up, carefully arranged the victim's coat, stepped back as if preparing a brutal assault, and then flicked him twice. A roar of laughter broke from all sides. Rudd shifted uneasily on his feet.

Foster went up and did the same, then Davenport, then the rest of the prefects. The very walls seemed shrieking with laughter.

Flushing dark red, Rudd strode across to his study. Such dignity as he had ever had, had been taken from him. Everyone had seen his ignominy.

The next time he took hall a pandemonium broke out such as never had been heard before. A game of cricket was played with a tennis ball and a Liddell and Scott; Gordon crossing the courts heard it, and he decided to clinch his victory. He went down to the day-room and walked straight in. There was instant silence. Gordon took no notice of Rudd whatever.

"Look here, you men, you are making a filthy row down here. I heard it right across the courts. The Chief might hear it easily. You have got to shut up. If I hear any more noise I shall give every man two hundred lines; so shut up."

There was comparative peace after this. Rudd had ceased to count in House politics. To all intents and purposes Gordon was head of the House, and the House regarded him as such. Rudd was generally known as the "nominal head." Gordon had got his power, and for the next six weeks he decided to enjoy it to the full. On the cricket field, although not quite keeping to the promise or the luck of May, he did well enough to make the batting cup quite certain. There was now no fear of any defeat clouding his last days. He had ceased to worry himself with analysing his emotions. He let himself enjoy the hour of happiness while he still had it, and did not trouble to question himself how long it would last. He had passed through the time of blind depression during the Easter term when he had seen hope after hope go down: he had come through somehow. It did not matter with what inward searchings of heart. Outwardly he had been a success. Now his outward triumph was even more pronounced. As a few weeks before he had been too prone to look at the inward to the total exclusion of the outward aspect of things, now he began to consider only the things that seem. It was the swing of the pendulum. It remained for him to find the media via.

The last days of June and the early weeks of July passed calmly. In the mornings he lounged in his study, reading novels, or talking to Morgan. The afternoons went by like a cavalcade, with the white figures on the cricket ground, the drowsy atmosphere of the pavilion, the shadows lengthening across the ground. Then the evenings came, with Morcombe sitting in his study getting helped in his work, or talking about books and people and ideas. The House matches began. A-K senior had an average side, but no one expected them to do very much, and it was a surprise when, by beating Christy's and Claremont's, they qualified to meet an exceptionally strong Buller's side in the final. Foster and Gordon looked forward to their last match at Fernhurst with the cheerful knowledge that they had no chance of winning, and that therefore they had nothing to fear of disappointment. It would be a jolly friendly game to finish up with. The days raced past so quickly that it came as a shock to Gordon to discover that his last week, with its examinations and threatening form lists, had really come.

"I shall be sorry to leave, you know," he said to Foster. "I am not at all looking forward to the army."

"Last Christmas I would have given anything to get out of this place," Foster answered. "But now, my Lord; I wish I was coming back. We've had a good time this term."

The first three days of that last week it rained incessantly. The Senior final was postponed till the Thursday. Examinations took their desultory course. Gordon had often in the past slacked in exams, but never had he treated them in quite the same indifferent way as he did this term. He had no intention of spoiling his last days by working. Every morning the Sixth went in for a three hours' paper, at nine-thirty. Before eleven Gordon had always shown up his papers, and strolled out of the room to read Paradise Lost in his study. In the afternoon he usually managed to toss off the two hours' exam. in three quarters of an hour.

He was "finishing in style." On Thursday the rain stopped at last, and the Senior final began.

"Foster," said Gordon, as the two walked down to the field, "I believe ours is one of the very worst sides that ever got into the final. There are two Firsts, you and I. Collins was tried for the Colts two years ago. There are eight others."

"Oh, you forget Bray, a fine, free bat with an unorthodox style. But ... I believe he made fourteen on a House game the other day."

"Yes, that is a recommendation, of course, but somehow I don't think we shall win."

"Win!" echoed Foster. "We shall be lucky if we avoid an innings defeat."

And this supposition proved still more likely when half-an-hour later the House, having won the toss, had lost three wickets for as many runs. Jack Whitaker, now captain of Buller's, had gone on to bowl first from the end nearest the National Schools. In his first over he clean bowled Gordon, and in the next he got Foster leg before, and Bradford caught in the slips.

"I foresee," said Collins, "that we shall spend most of this game fielding. A poor way of occupying our last few days."

"That's where I score," said Gordon; "the wicket-keeper has no running to do, and, besides, I rather enjoy a game in which there is nothing to lose, no anxiety or anything. It is a peaceful end to a turgid career.... Oh, well hit!"

Bray had just lifted a length ball off the middle stump over short-leg's head.

"That's the sort of cricket I like," said Gordon; "a splendid contempt for all laws and regulations. Heavens! there he goes again!"

A lucky snick flew over the slips to the boundary.

"This is something like," said Foster, and prepared to enjoy himself.

And certainly Bray's cricket was entertaining. He treated every ball the same; he stepped straight down the pitch with his left foot, raised his bat in the direction of point and then, as the ball was bowled, he pivoted himself violently on his left foot and, going through a complete half-circle, finished, facing the wicket-keeper, with both feet outside the crease, but his bat well over the line. The chief attraction of this gymnastic feat was the unexpectedness of it all. No one knew where the ball would go if it was hit. Once when he timed his shot a little late he caught the ball just as it was passing him and drove it flying past the wicket-keeper's head to where long-stop would have been. The fielding side was always glad to see Bray's back, and it usually did not have to wait long. But to-day he bore a charmed life. He was missed at point once, twice he gave a chance of being stumped, the ball shaved his wickets times innumerable. But nearly every other ball he managed to hit somewhere. In the pavilion the School House rocked with laughter.

At the other end Davenham poked about scoring singles here and there. The score crept up. Amid cheers in which laughter was blended, the fifty went up. Then Bray, in a particularly gallant effort to steer a ball well outside the off stump round to short-leg, hit, all three wickets flying out of the ground. It was a suitable end to an unusual innings.

He received a royal welcome in the pavilion.

"Bray, my son," said Gordon, "you are a sportsman. Come to the tuck-shop and have a drink. Nellie, mix this gentleman an ice and a lemonade, and put it down to my account. Thank you. Ah, there's Collins. Good luck, Collins; keep your head."

Two minutes later Collins returned to the pavilion with a downcast face.

"The damned thing broke," he said, as if he considered breaks illegal in House matches.

The rest of the side played in the usual light-hearted School House spirit. There were some fine hits made, and some scandalous ones, too. It was like a cinematograph show. Everyone slammed about; the Buller's men missed catches galore. Davenport was missed four times in making fourteen. Somehow the score reached respectable heights. Byes helped considerably. The final score was one hundred and twenty.

"And now," said Collins, "we have got to field for two hours to-day. To-morrow is not a half, so we shall have to field all the time; we sha'n't get a knock till after roll on Saturday. Five hours' fielding. Damn!"

"And it will do you a lot of good, too," said Foster. "Are you all ready, House? Come on then."

A-K Senior filed out into the field. A loud cheer rose from the crowd. The House was amazingly partisan. Whether a House side is losing by an innings or winning by two hundred runs, it is always sure of the same reception when it goes on to the field from its own men. The light had grown rather bad and Foster began bowling with the trees at his back, so as to hide his delivery. At the other end Bradford was to bowl.

The start was sensational.

Buller's sent in Crampin and Mitchell first, two hefty footballers, with strong wrists and no science, who had run up some big scores in the preliminary rounds.

Foster ran up to bowl. Crampin had a terrific swipe. The ball turned from the bat. The bat only just touched it.

"How's that?" roared Gordon.

The finger went up. A ripple of clapping ran along the side of the ground.

"You stick to that," said Collins, "and we shall get them out by to-morrow night."

"Dry up," said Gordon ironically. "Can't you see we are going to win?... Man in!"

Jack Whitaker came in. He was far and away the most stylish bat in the school, and had scored a lot of runs during the season. He faced the bowling confidently; he had played Foster a hundred times at the nets, and knew his tricks well. He played through the over with ease. The last ball he placed in front of short-leg for a single.

Bradford went on to bowl. He was a House match class of bowler. No idea of length, or direction, only an indefatigable energy and considerable pace. His first ball was a long hop wide on the off. Whitaker banged it past point for four.

The next ball was a full pitch to leg. Collins had to run about a hundred yards to rescue it from the road. Bradford looked fierce. He took a longer run than usual, rushed up to the wicket, and plunged the ball in with all his force. A howl of untuneful applause rose from under the trees. The ball not only happened to be straight, but was also a yorker. Whitaker's middle stump fell flat.

There are times when a panic seizes the very best side, and for the next hour and a half the House had the pleasant experience of watching an unusually strong Buller side rabbit out before a very moderate attack. Buller's side contained four First and two Second Eleven colours, to say nothing of three Colts caps. And yet by six o'clock the whole team was dismissed for eighty-three. There was nothing to account for the rot. Foster and Bradford bowled unchanged. Bradford took six of the wickets, four clean bowled. It was incomprehensible.

"I can't understand it," said Gordon at tea. "Bradford was bowling the most utter drivel half the time, I would have given anything to have been batting. And you were not bowling at your best, you know, Foster."

"I am well aware of that; but, heavens! it was sheer joy. Look at old Collins, down there, beaming at the thought of not having to field to-morrow."

"It's all right," mumbled Collins from a huge cup of tea.

"By Jove! wouldn't it be gorgeous if we could win this match, and finish up by beating the Buller crowd at their own game?" said Gordon. "Damn it all, I don't see why we shouldn't. What we have done once we can do again. They are a better side, I know, but we'll have a damned good shot at winning."

Of course Buller's laughed at the whole thing.

"It's really rather funny," they said. "But, of course, we are in absolutely no danger of losing. We couldn't wreck like that again; and, what's more, we shouldn't let an ass like Bray make so many runs again. We are quite safe!"

The School House kept quiet. They were not going to shout their hopes all over the school. It would look so bad if they got thoroughly beaten in the end. But in the studies and dormitories that night there was only one thought in all those minds—that victory was possible.

The next day it rained the whole time. The courts were flooded with water, the branches dripped with a tired languor. Gordon polished off two exams with masterly speed, and returned to his study.

Saturday morning broke grey and wet. It rained spasmodically till mid-day, and then cleared up. With a sigh of relief Gordon walked up the big schoolroom to show up the last piece of work that he would do at Fernhurst. For a last composition it was hardly creditable. A long paper on the Œdipus Tyrannus was finished in under an hour. But Gordon had ceased to care for academic distinctions. As he closed the door of the big school, and went out into the cloisters, he realised that a certain stage of his journey was over and done with for ever.

By lunch-time all signs of rain had cleared off, and the sun shone down on an absolutely sodden ground. Runs would be very hard to get. A lead of thirty-seven meant a lot on such a wicket. An atmosphere of nervous expectation overhung the House. Everyone was glad when the meal was over.

The match began directly after lunch. There would be very likely some difficulty in finishing the game that day. Collins and Foster went in first. Gordon had asked to be kept back till later. The start was dull. Foster was taking no risks, and Collins seemed unable to time the ball at all, which was luckily always off the wicket. Ten went up after quarter of an hour's play.

And then Foster, reaching out to play forward, slipped on the wet grass and was stumped. Three balls later Bradford was caught and bowled. It was Gordon's turn to go in. Nearly everything depended on him. If he failed, the whole side would probably collapse. The tail had done miracles in the first innings; but it could not be expected to do the same again.

Gordon took guard nervously. He resolved to play himself in carefully, but he never could resist the temptation to have a "go." The first ball was well up, just outside the off stump. Gordon stepped across and let fly. He had forgotten how slow the pitch was. The ball hung; he was much too soon; the ball sailed straight up into the air! Point and cover-point both ran for it. "Crampin!" yelled out Whitaker. Neither heard; they crashed into one another; the ball fell with a dull thud. The House gave a gasp of relief.

It was a costly mistake. For when once he got his eye in, Gordon was very hard to get out. And, moreover, he was one of the few people who could get runs quickly on a really wet wicket, for the simple reason that nearly all his shots went into the air; and so he did not find the sodden ground making off drives which should have resulted in fours only realise singles.

That afternoon Gordon found the bowling perfectly simple. At the other end wickets fell slowly, but he himself was scoring fast. A hard shot over cover-point sent up his individual fifty, and two overs later he drove a length ball on the off stump past mid on to the boundary, and the hundred went up amid cheers.

"It is a mystery to me," said Foster, "how that man Caruthers ever gets a run at all; he has no defence, and hits straight across everything."

"Don't let's worry about that," said Collins; "sufficient be it that he is hitting these Buller's swine all over the place. Oh, good shot!"

A half-volley had landed first bounce among the masters sitting under the wall. The umpire signalled six.

One hundred and fifty went up.

And then Gordon mistimed a slow yorker, and was clean bowled for eighty-five.

He was received with a storm of clapping; the House lined up cheering as he ran in between the ropes.

"Gratters! Well done!" shouted Foster. "That's a damned fine knock to finish your Fernhurst cricket days with! Well done!"

Everyone came up and congratulated him. It was a proud moment, in some ways the proudest of his whole career.

A few minutes later another burst of clapping signalled the end of the innings. The side had made one hundred and eighty-six. Buller's were left with two hundred and twenty-three to win. Anything might happen. Just before five Foster led the House on to the field.

The next hour and a half was fraught with delirious happiness and excitement. Foster bowled magnificently, Bradford managed to keep a length; the whole side fielded splendidly. Wicket after wicket fell. Victory became a certainty. Gloom descended over the Buller's side. Round the pavilion infants with magenta hat ribbons yelled themselves hoarse. It was one of those occasions in which eternity seems compressed into an hour. Half-past six came. No one went up to tea, everyone was waiting for the end. At last it came. Whitaker, who alone had been able to withstand the School House attack, over-reached himself, Gordon gathered the ball quickly, the bails flew off. The umpire's hand rose. A wild shriek rose from the crowd. Gordon's last game at Fernhurst was over; his last triumph had come; at last "Samson had quit himself like Samson." Through the lines of shrieking juniors the team passed into the pavilion. Gordon began to collect his things, to pack up his bag. He gave it to a fag to carry up.

Collins and Foster and Gordon walked up from the field arm in arm.

"Well, if we stopped on here for a hundred years," said Foster, "we shouldn't find a better hour to leave."

"Yes, the end has made up for any disappointments on the way. It will be a long time before we have as wonderful a time again," Gordon said, as he passed in the sunset, for the last time, through the gate of the cricket-field which had been, for him, the place of so many happy hours.