o win the Public Schools' Racquets Championship.
The Manor was now the crack house--cock-house at racquets and football,
certain to be cock-house at cricket. And Scaife got most of the credit,
not Warde, who smiled more than ever, and talked continually of Balliol
Scholarships. He never bragged of victories past.

Meantime, John was devoting all energies to the competition for the
Prize Essay. The Head Master had propounded as theme: "The History and
Influence of Parliamentary Oratory." Bit by bit, John read or declaimed
it to Desmond. Then, according to custom, Desmond copied it out for his
friend. Signed "_Spero Infestis_," with a sealed envelope containing
John's name inside and the motto outside, the MS. was placed in the Head
Master's letter-box. John, cooling rapidly after the fever of
composition, condemned his stuff as hopelessly bad; Caesar went about
telling everybody that Jonathan would win easily, "with a bit to spare."
John did win, but that proved to be the least part of his triumph. The
Essay had to be declaimed upon Speech Day. Once more John experienced
the pangs that had twisted him at the concert, long ago, when he had
sung to the Nation's hero. And as before, he began weakly. Then, the
fire seizing him, self-consciousness was exorcised by feeling, and
forgetful of the hundreds of faces about him, he burst into genuine
oratory. Thrilled himself, he thrilled others. His voice faltered
again, but with an emotion that found an echo in the hearts of his
audience; his hand shook, feeling the pulse of old and young in front of
him. Dominated, swept away by his theme, he dominated others. When he
finished, in the silence that preceded the roar of applause, he knew
that he had triumphed, for he saw Desmond's glowing countenance, radiant
with pleasure, transfigured by amazement and admiration. Next day a
great newspaper hailed the Harrow boy as one destined to delight and to
lead, perhaps, an all-conquering party in the House of Commons. And yet,
warmed to the core by this praise, John counted it as nothing compared
with his mother's smile and Desmond's fervent grip.

Fortune, however, comes to no man--or boy--with both hands full.
Immediately after Speech Day, John's bubble of pride and happiness was
pricked by Scaife. Midsummer madness seized the Demon. One may conceive
that the innate recklessness of his nature, suppressed by an iron will,
and smouldering throughout many months, burst at last into flame.
D