“I suppose these things are planned out beforehand,” went on the Soldier, thoughtfully. “To call it all blind chance seems a well-nigh impossible solution to me. And yet the cynic would assuredly laugh at connecting a child eating an orange in a back street in Oxford, and the death while fishing in Ireland of one of the greatest-hearted men that ever lived. But unless that child had eaten that orange, and left the peel on the pavement for Carter, the Oxford blue, to slip on and sprain his ankle, the events I am going to relate would, in all probability, never have taken place. However, since delving too deeply into cause and effect inevitably produces insanity, I’d better get on with it. “I turned up about three o’clock at Crosby Hall, along with four or five other fellows from the regiment. Usual sort of stunt—marquee and lemonade, with whisky in the background for the hopeless cases. The I Z. merchants were in the field, and Trevor was batting. There was an Eton boy in with him, and the score was two hundred odd for five wickets. Philip Blenton lounged up as soon as he saw me, grinning all over his face. “‘Thank Heaven you let him come, old man! He’s pulled eighty of the best out of his bag already, and doesn’t look like getting out.’ “‘He wouldn’t come at first, Philip,’ I said, and he stared at me in surprise. ‘I think he was afraid of being recognised.’ “A burst of applause greeted a magnificent drive past cover-point, and for a while we watched the game in silence, until another long round of cheering announced that Sergeant Trevor had got his century. As I’ve said before, I’m no cricketer, but there was no need to be an expert to realise that he was something out of the way. He was treating the by-no-means-indifferent I Z. bowling with the utmost contempt, and old Lord Apson, our host, was beside himself with joy. He was a cricket maniac; his week was an annual fixture; and for the first time for many years he saw his team really putting it across the I Z. And it was just as I was basking in a little reflected glory that I saw a very dear old friend of mine arrive in the enclosure, accompanied by a perfectly charming girl. “‘Why, Yeverley, old man!’ I cried, ‘how are you?’ “‘Dog-face, as I live!’ he shouted, seizing me by both hands. ‘Man-alive, I’m glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my wife; Doris, this is Major Chilham—otherwise Dog-face.’