“OUT!”

Sec.6

Not for half an hour that evening did the cheering cease or the mass of boys begin to disperse.  Even then there were little outbreaks of fresh cheering coming from separate groups.  A line of day-boys, who had linked arms as, homeward bound, they left the field, droned merrily: 

“Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh,
Shadows of the evening
Steal across the sky.”

And among the dissolving cheers from the distance could occasionally be heard the refrain of “Hoo-Ray, hoo-Ray, hoo-blooming-Ray!”

CHAPTER XII

CASTLES AND BRICK-DUST

Sec.1

It was on the day when those two pistol shots were fired at an Austrian Archduke in the streets of Serajevo that the Masters’ match was played out at Kensingtowe.  By the early evening the reverberation of the revolver reports had been felt like an earthquake-shock in all the capitals of Europe; and in a failing light the last wicket had fallen at Kensingtowe.  So it happened that, while the Emperors of Central Europe were whispering that the Day had come and the slaughter of the youth of Christendom might begin, there was a gathering in Radley’s room of those insignificant people whose little doings you have watched at Kensingtowe.  They were assembled to drink tea and discuss the match.  There were Radley as host; Pennybet, to represent the Old Boys; Doe and I, in fine fettle for the School; and Dr. Chappy, who, having sworn that he was a busy man and couldn’t spare the time, sat spilling cigar-ash in the best armchair, and looked like remaining for the rest of the evening.

“Stop quarrelling about the match,” said Radley, as he stood with his back to the mantelpiece, “and listen to me.  It’s a great day, this—­a day of triumph.  Ray has won the innings victory for the School, and Doe—­”

Doe pricked up his ears.

“It’s just out—­Doe has won the Horace Prize.”

At this news there were great congratulations of the poet, who went red with pleasure.

“When you’ve all finished,” said Radley, “I’ll read the Prize Poem.”

So Radley began faithfully from a manuscript: 

“Horace, Odes I, 9. Vides ut Alta Stet.
“White is the mountain, fleeced in snows,
And the pale trees depress their weighted boughs—­”

“Oh, spare us!” interrupted Chappy.

“Not a bit,” said Radley.  “Hark to this: 

“Bring out the mellow wine, the best,
The sweet convivial wine, and test
Its four-year-old maturity: 
To Jove commit the rest,
Nor question his divine intents
For, when he stays the battling elements,
The wind shall brood o’er prostrate seas
And fail to move the ash’s crest
Or stir the stilly cypress trees. 
Be no forecaster of the dawn;
Deem it an asset, and be gay—­
Come, merge to-morrow’s misty morn
In the resplendence of to-day.