lend of irony and pathos which always
captivated his friend, "you see, my dear old chap, I'm the first of my
family at Harrow, and the sight of all your brothers and uncles and
fathers makes me feel like Mark Twain's good man, rather _lonesome_."

At once Desmond responded, clutching Scaife's arm.

"You're going to be Captain of the cricket and footer Elevens, and
School racquet-player, and a monitor; and after you leave you'll come
down here, and you'll see that Harrow hasn't forgotten you, and then
you'll know why these fellows cut engagements. My governor says that an
hour at a School Concert is the finest tonic in the world for an Old
Harrovian."

"Oh, shut up!" said Scaife; "you make me feel more of an outsider than
good old Snowball." He glanced at a youth sitting close to them.
Snowball was as black as a coal: the son of the Sultan of the Sahara.
"Yes, Caesar, you can't get away from it, I _am_ an 'alien.'"

"You're a silly old ass! I say, who's the guest of honour?"

Next to the Head Master was sitting a thin man upon whose face were
fixed hundreds of eyes. The School had not been told that a famous Field
Marshal, the hero of a hundred fights, was coming to the concert. And,
indeed, he had accepted an invitation given at the last moment--accepted
it, moreover, on the understanding that his visit was to be informal.
None the less, his face was familiar to all readers of illustrated
papers. And, suddenly, conviction seized the boys that a conqueror was
among them, an Old Etonian, making, possibly, his first visit to the
Hill. Scaife whispered his name to Desmond.

"Why, of course," Desmond replied eagerly. "How splendid!"

He leaned forward, devouring the hero with his eyes, trying to pierce
the bronzed skin, to read the record. From his seat upon the stage John,
also, stared at the illustrious guest. John was frightfully nervous, but
looking at the veteran he forgot the fear of the recruit. Both Desmond
and he were wondering what "it felt like" to have done so much.
And--they compared notes afterwards--each boy deplored the fact that the
great man was not an Old Harrovian. There he sat, cool, calm, slightly
impassive. John thought he must be rather tired, as a man ought to be
tired after a life of strenuous endeavour and achievement. He had
done--so John reflected--an awful lot. Even now, he remained the active,
untiring servant of Queen and country. And he had taken time to come
down to Harrow to hear the