The next year was 1914.  It found Pennybet at Sandhurst; Doe brilliantly high in the Sixth Form, and, since he was a classical scholar and a poet, first favourite for the Horace Prize.  In the cricket annals of Kensingtowe it was a remarkable year.  Throughout the Summer Term victory followed victory.  The M.C.C., having heard of Kensingtowe’s super-batsmen, sent a strong team against us, which went under, amid cheering that lasted from 6 to 6.30 p.m.  The Sportsman spoke of our fast bowler and captain as the “Coming Man.”  We called him “Honion,” partly because his head, being perfectly bald, resembled that vegetable, and partly 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?”