because he
enjoyed the prefix "The Hon." before his name. Yes, I am speaking of
the Hon. F. Lancaster, who appeared for a few moments like a new
comet in the cricket heavens, just as the thundercloud of war
blotted everything out. When the cloud should roll away, that new
comet would be no longer there.

As the term drew to its close, and the world to the War, the cricket
enthusiasm possessing Kensingtowe focussed itself on the annual
fixture, "The School _v._ The Masters." For eight years the Masters,
thanks to their captain, Radley, had won with ease. The previous
year their task had been more difficult, for the shadow of "Honion"
was already looming. This year that shadow overspread the world.

We had conquered everywhere, and this was our last fixture. We would
win: we _must_ win. If Radley could be eliminated from the Masters'
team--if, for instance, some arsenic could be placed in his tea--our
victory would be a foregone conclusion. It was a question of
"Honion" _v._ Radley. The enthusiasm swelled and burst the
boundaries of the school. Local papers took up the subject. London
papers, in small-print paragraphs, copied them. Party feeling ran
quite high outside the school: Middlesex supporters desired the
triumph of the Masters, which would be the triumph of S.T. Radley,
their hero; Sussex supporters backed the School, for they knew that
"Honion" Lancaster was to come to them. There was no party within
the school, the school being solid for "The School."

One day Radley tapped me on the shoulder.

"Why don't you try to get in the Team?" asked he. "You're the best
bowler in the Second Eleven."

I grinned, and represented that such a consummation was of all
earthly things impossible.

"I don't see why," said he. "The school's batting talent is great,
but the bowling's weak."

Ye Gods! Had he ever heard of Honion?

"O, sir," I remonstrated, "but our strength lies in Honion--in
Lancaster, I mean."

Radley smiled.

"What other bowler of any class have you?"

It was true. I mentioned Moles White as a fine slow bowler, and
could think of no more "star-turns."

"Well, you come," said Radley, "and bowl at my private net every
evening. Your leg-breaks are teasers. I was talking to Lancaster
this morning, and he says he doesn't know who will be the last man
of the Eleven. Why shouldn't it be you?"

So evening after evening I bowled to Radley, who coached me
enthusiastically. I think that he was making a fa