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 and
wiry, light hair, almost white. He walked well, as if he were used to
running. Altogether a fit-looking sort of man. Even Mike's jaundiced
eye saw that.

As a matter of fact, Adair deserved more than a casual glance. He was
that rare type, the natural leader. Many boys and men, if accident, or
the passage of time, places them in a position where they are expected
to lead, can handle the job without disaster; but that is a very
different thing from being a born leader. Adair was of the sort that
comes to the top by sheer force of character and determination. He was
not naturally clever at work, but he had gone at it with a dogged
resolution which had carried him up the school, and landed him high in
the Sixth. As a cricketer he was almost entirely self-taught. Nature had
given him a good eye, and left the thing at that. Adair's doggedness had
triumphed over her failure to do her work thoroughly. At the cost of
more trouble than most people give to their life work he had made
himself into a bowler. He read the authorities, and watched first-class
players, and thought the thing out on his own account, and he divided
the art of bowling into three sections. First, and most
important--pitch. Second on the list--break. Third--pace. He set himself
to acquire pitch. He acquired it. Bowling at his own pace and without
any attempt at break, he could now drop the ball on an envelope seven