“I can get it for myself, if it comes to that,” I answered, picking up the penny again. “You ought to stock it. All theatrical people buy it, and if you thought it was dead, you thought utterly wrong. It’s much more alive than you are.” I then left him hastily, before he had time to think of a repartee. XIII My efforts at the L.A.C. threw rather a cloud on my career at this season, for they continued to be crowned with failure; in fact, the bitter truth was slowly brought home to me that I was not a good runner. I won a heat in two handicaps, after repeated losses; but when it came to the semi-finals, in both cases my performance was quite beneath consideration. I was very unequal, and Nat Perry said that my running was rather “in and out,” and Dicky Travers said that it might be misunderstood and count against me, though, of course, he knew it was not intentional, but just according to the sort of spirits I was in. For instance, if Mr. Westonshaugh had praised me at the office, or Mr. Montgomery Merridew had said I was getting on at the Dramatic School, then, curiously enough, I ran better; but if Mr. Westonshaugh had frowned, or Mr. Merridew had exhibited impatience about my deportment or voice production, then my legs seemed to feel it, and sulk, and go slower, just when I most wanted them to go faster. Such, no doubt, is life. But, to compensate for these reverses, most extraordinary success attended my cricket, and at the end of the season it was found on calculation that I headed the batting list with an average of forty, decimal something, for eight completed innings. We were the champion insurance office that season, thanks in a measure to me and another much better man called Finlay, who bowled at a great pace and was also a steady run-getter. Then came the striking news that there was a bat given annually for the best average. It was bestowed publicly, in the Board Room, and the Secretary presented it in the name of the directors. For an instant I regretted my achievement; then I told myself that as a man destined to take his place on the public stage and be in the public eye, a trifling matter like a presentation-bat was all in the day’s work. So I took the matter in a light spirit, and, though doubtless many felt very envious of my amazing luck, for there were five “not outs” in my average, I none the less treated it with great apparent coolness. “You’ll have to make a speech,” said Mr. Blades, and I merely answered: “Of course. You always have to in these cases”—just as though receiving testimonials was as common a thing with me as registering policies. Behind the scenes, however, the case was very different, and, as the time drew nearer for the presentation of the bat, I found, rather to my surprise, that my pulse quickened when the thought came into my mind.