ere tearing themselves to
tatters; but his protests were drowned by the shrill cheers of the
fags.

"Rutfords--Rutfor-r-r-r-r-ds! Go it, old Demon!--Jolly well played,
Caesar!--Sky him![17]--Well skied, sir!--Ah-h-h-h! Well given--well
taken!"

The last, long-drawn-out exclamation proclaimed that "Yards"[18] had
been given to Scaife right in front of Damer's base. Damer's retreated;
Scaife, with heaving chest, balanced the big ball between the tips of
his fingers.

"Oh-h-h-h-h!"

Scaife had missed an easy shot. Lawrence could see that the boy was
trembling with disappointment and mortification. Barbed arrows from
Damer's small boys pierced Manorite hearts.

"Jolly well boshed, Scaife!--Good, kind, old Demon!--Thank you,
Scaife!--" and like derisive approbation rolled from lip to lip. The
Caterpillar turned to Lovell.

"Showing temper, ain't he?"

"Yes," said Lovell.

"Clever chap," said the Caterpillar, reflectively; "but one is reminded
that a stream can't rise higher than its source. Not mine that--the
governor's! Caesar is facing the chaff with a grin."

The game began again. But soon it became evident that Scaife had lost,
not only his temper, but his head. He rushed here and there with so
little judgment that the odds amongst the sporting fellows went to six
to four against the Manor. At the beginning of the game they were six to
four the other way. And, inevitably, Scaife's wild and furious efforts
unbalanced Desmond's play. Both boys were out of their proper places to
the confusion of the rest of the team. Within half an hour Damer's had
scored two bases to nothing.

The Caterpillar distributed halves of lemons. Lawrence went up to
Scaife. The captain of the Torpids was standing apart, not far from
Desmond, who was sucking a lemon with a puzzled expression. Gallant,
sweet-tempered, and always hopeful, Caesar could not understand his
friend's passion of rage and resentment. With the tact of his race,
however, he held aloof, smiling feebly, because he had sworn to himself
not to frown. Had he looked to his right, he would have seen John, also
sucking a lemon, but understudying his idol's nonchalant attitude and
smile. John was sensible of an overpowering desire to fling himself upon
the ground and howl. Instead he sucked his lemon, stared at Desmond, and
smiled--valiantly.

"Scaife," said Lawrence, gravely, "you're not playing the game."

Scaife scowled. "I only know I've half killed myself," he mu