Life at St. Anselm’s presents no more attractive scene than the ‘giving of the flannels’ on the Saturday before the great match of the year. The players, who are regarded as candidates for the last remaining places, are tested in the presence of a large company. Every wicket bowled, every run scored by any one of them is hailed by his supporters, who are usually the members of his own house, as a point in his favour. On this occasion Harry Venniker took three wickets in the first innings; he also scored eight runs, being ‘not out.’ In the second innings (which was not finished) he bowled only one wicket, but a ‘chance’ was missed off his bowling. Another boy--also a bowler--took two wickets in each innings. A boy who was being tried as a bat got twenty-one runs. Another bat got only one run; he was generally considered to be ‘out of it.’ It is the annual practice that at the conclusion of this last match the players return to the pavilion, the spectators cluster around it--none but the players being allowed to enter its sacred precincts--then the captain of the eleven, in the interior of the pavilion, takes his cap--the cap distinctive of the eleven--and places it successively on the heads of the boys who are put into the eleven, and these boys, being thus decorated, emerge from the pavilion and show themselves to the admiring crowd outside. Sometimes a long interval elapses, or seems to elapse, before the last boy makes his appearance with the cap on his head, and the expectation then becomes intense. A crowd of two or three hundred boys was gathered outside the pavilion railings. The door opened, and the boy who had distinguished himself in batting came out, wearing the coveted cap. He was loudly cheered. Then he retired. The crowd still waited. The buzz of conversation was loud. The long level shadows of the setting sun stole over the ground. Once or twice the door opened, and boys appeared, but they were old members of the eleven. It seemed a quarter of an hour, but I suppose it was only two or three minutes, before the door opened again, and the last elected member of the eleven came full into view--Harry Venniker. What a cheering arose! What a waving of hats in the air! What enthusiasm of delight! When the excitement was dying away, there was still one voice giving a last cheer, one hat still waving in the air. It was Gerald Eversley’s. He was sauntering up the hill when he heard a quick step behind him, and Harry Venniker seized his arm, saying, ‘Bless you, old man; I heard your old voice last of all.’ And Gerald, as he locked his arm in his friend’s, could only say, ‘I felt as if no fellow had so much right to cheer as I.’ Before the sun went down, the cap of the school eleven was hanging on the antlers of the stag’s head in Harry’s room. That was Harry Venniker’s triumph. What was Gerald Eversley’s?