tes passed. The room was the
good-sized, square one, with the folding doors, the marble
mantel-piece, and the gloomy, old-fashioned distinction peculiar to the
Albany. It was charmingly furnished and arranged, with the right
amount of negligence and the right amount of taste. What struck me
most, however, was the absence of the usual insignia of a cricketer's
den. Instead of the conventional rack of war-worn bats, a carved oak
bookcase, with every shelf in a litter, filled the better part of one
wall; and where I looked for cricketing groups, I found reproductions
of such works as "Love and Death" and "The Blessed Damozel," in dusty
frames and different parallels. The man might have been a minor poet
instead of an athlete of the first water. But there had always been a
fine streak of aestheticism in his complex composition; some of these
very pictures I had myself dusted in his study at school; and they set
me thinking of yet another of his many sides--and of the little
incident to which he had just referred.

Everybody knows how largely the tone of a public school depends on that
of the eleven, and on the character of the captain of cricket in
particular; and I have never heard it denied that in A. J. Raffles's
time our tone was good, or that such influence as he troubled to exert
was on the side of the angels. Yet it was whispered in the school that
he was in the habit of parading the town at night in loud checks and a
false beard. It was whispered, and disbelieved. I alone knew it for a
fact; for night after night had I pulled the rope up after him when the
rest of the dormitory were asleep, and kept awake by the hour to let it
down again on a given signal. Well, one night he was over-bold, and
within an ace of ignominious expulsion in the hey-day of his fame.
Consummate daring and extraordinary nerve on his part, aided,
doubtless, by some little presence of mind on mine, averted the
untoward result; and no more need be said of a discreditable incident.
But I cannot pretend to have forgotten it in throwing myself on this
man's mercy in my desperation. And I was wondering how much of his
leniency was owing to the fact that Raffles had not forgotten it
either, when he stopped and stood over my chair once more.

"I've been thinking of that night we had the narrow squeak," he began.
"Why do you start?"

"I was thinking of it too."

He smiled, as though he had read my thoughts.

"Well, you were the right