"They’re only satisfied by being clean bowled, Mr James," he explained, and then proceeded to administer a few words of rebuke to Jim’s assailant, who looked duly reproved. The Long ’Un was meditating trying an over--with the laudable object of getting the big batsman out in a way he would quite understand--when a page-boy came hurrying towards him with a message to the effect that the Doctor wished to speak to him at the telephone. So Jim had perforce to postpone his over, and left the field little dreaming that certain words which would shortly come to him across the wire were destined to affect his after-career in a remarkable manner. *CHAPTER II.* *OVER THE TELEPHONE.* Old Dr Mortimer was, in every sense of the word, a hard man. Of massive build and handsome countenance, upright and commanding in presence, with a clear brain, a will of iron, and a resonant, penetrating voice, his was at once a dominating and notable personality. Dr Mortimer’s sphere of action, it is true, was limited and local; but if, by the accident of circumstances, his lot had been cast in a military or political arena, he would assuredly have risen to a high place, and possibly cut his initials on the rock of fame. Beginning on nothing, the Doctor had fought his way up to his present position by dint of sheer perseverance and strength of head. His indomitable will had cleared away all obstacles, and now he was seventy, hale and hearty, a man of wealth and a county magnate. But Dame Fortune, while she gives with one hand, takes away with the other. The Doctor was now childless, and grandchildless, too, save for James. This man of iron had brought weaklings into the world; his wife had died before she was thirty, and as his riches increased, his brood had one by one faded into the grave. So now, when James--the only son of his eldest son--was in London, Dr Mortimer sat at his mahogany every night all alone--proud, rich, powerful, feared, obeyed on the instant--but alone. His assistant, M’Pherson, a trustworthy, middle-aged Scotsman, of no especial brilliance, but conscientious to a hair, lived at the asylum and took most of his meals with the patients. The Doctor had made his will years since, and James was absolutely heir to all he had, save for trifling legacies to his executors and such persons as Hughes, his cook, coachman, and gardeners. Every stick and stone was to be Jim’s, and Jim knew it.