On the same morning Mike met Adair for the first time.

　　He was going across to school with Psmith and Jellicoe, when a groupof three came out of the gate of the house next door.

　　"That's Adair," said Jellicoe, "in the middle."His voice had assumed a tone almost of awe.

　　"Who's Adair?" asked Mike.

　　"Captain of cricket, and lots of other things."Mike could only see the celebrity's back. He had broad shoulders andwiry, light hair, almost white. He walked well, as if he were used torunning. Altogether a fit-looking sort of man. Even Mike's jaundicedeye saw that.

　　As a matter of fact, Adair deserved more than a casual glance. He wasthat rare type, the natural leader. Many boys and men, if accident, orthe passage of time, places them in a position where they are expectedto lead, can handle the job without disaster; but that is a verydifferent thing from being a born leader. Adair was of the sort thatcomes to the top by sheer force of character and determination. Hewas not naturally clever at work, but he had gone at it with a doggedresolution which had carried him up the school, and landed him high inthe Sixth. As a cricketer he was almost entirely self-taught. Naturehad given him a good eye, and left the thing at that. Adair'sdoggedness had triumphed over her failure to do her work thoroughly.

　　At the cost of more trouble than most people give to their life-workhe had made himself into a bowler. He read the authorities, andwatched first-class players, and thought the thing out on his ownaccount, and he divided the art of bowling into three sections. First,and most important--pitch. Second on the list--break. Third--pace. Heset himself to acquire pitch. He acquired it. Bowling at his own paceand without any attempt at break, he could now drop the ball on anenvelope seven times out of ten.

　　Break was a more uncertain quantity. Sometimes he could get it at theexpense of pitch, sometimes at the expense of pace. Some days he couldget all three, and then he was an uncommonly bad man to face onanything but a plumb wicket.

　　Running he had acquired in a similar manner. He had nothingapproaching style, but he had twice won the mile and half-mile at theSports off elegant runners, who knew all about stride and the correcttiming of the sprints and all the rest of it.

　　Briefly, he was a worker. He had heart.

　　A boy of Adair's type is always a force in a school. In a big publicschool of six or seven hundred, his influence is felt less; but in asmall school like Sedleigh he is like a tidal wave, sweeping allbefore him. There were two hundred boys at Sedleigh, and there was notone of them in all probability who had not, directly or indirectly,been influenced by Adair. As a small boy his sphere was not large, butthe effects of his work began to be apparent even then. It is humannature to want to get something which somebody else obviously valuesvery much; and when it was observed by members of his form that Adairwas going to great trouble and inconvenience to secure a place in theform eleven or fifteen, they naturally began to think, too, that itwas worth being in those teams. The consequence was that his formalways played hard. This made other forms play hard. And the netresult was that, when Adair succeeded to the captaincy of footballand cricket in the same year, Sedleigh, as Mr. Downing, Adair'shouse-master and the nearest approach to a cricket-master thatSedleigh possessed, had a fondness for saying, was a keen school.

　　As a whole, it both worked and played with energy.

　　All it wanted now was opportunity.

　　This Adair was determined to give it. He had that passionate fondnessfor his school which every boy is popularly supposed to have, butwhich really is implanted in about one in every thousand. The averagepublic-school boy _likes_ his school. He hopes it will lickBedford at footer and Malvern at cricket, but he rather bets it won't.

　　He is sorry to leave, and he likes going back at the end of theholidays, but as for any passionate, deep-seated love of the place, hewould think it rather bad form than otherwise. If anybody came up tohim, slapped him on the back, and cried, "Come along, Jenkins, my boy!

　　Play up for the old school, Jenkins! The dear old school! The oldplace you love so!" he would feel seriously ill.

　　Adair was the exception.

　　To Adair, Sedleigh was almost a religion. Both his parents were dead;his guardian, with whom he spent the holidays, was a man withneuralgia at one end of him and gout at the other; and the only reallypleasant times Adair had had, as far back as he could remember, heowed to Sedleigh. The place had grown on him, absorbed him. WhereMike, violently transplanted from Wrykyn, saw only a wretched littlehole not to be mentioned in the same breath with Wrykyn, Adair,dreaming of the future, saw a colossal establishment, a public schoolamong public schools, a lump of human radium, shooting out Blues andBalliol Scholars year after year without ceasing.

　　It would not be so till long after he was gone and forgotten, but hedid not mind that. His devotion to Sedleigh was purely unselfish. Hedid not want fame. All he worked for was that the school should growand grow, keener and better a............