A large party were assembled in the drawing room of
Greendale, Sir John Greendale’s picturesque
old mansion house. It was early in September.
The men had returned from shooting, and the guests
were gathered in the drawing room; in the pleasant
half hour of dusk when the lamps have not yet been
lighted, though it is already too dark to read.
The conversation was general, and from the latest
news from India had drifted into the subject of the
Italian belief in the Mal Occhio.
“Do you believe in it, Captain Mallett?”
asked Bertha, Sir John’s only child, a girl
of sixteen; who was nestled in an easy chair next
to that in which the man she addressed was sitting.
“I don’t know, Bertha.”
He had known her from childhood, and she had not yet
reached an age when the formal “Miss Greendale”
was incumbent upon her acquaintances.
“I do not believe in the Italian superstition
to anything like the extent they carry it. I
don’t think I should believe it at all if it
were not that one man has always been unlucky to me.”
“How unlucky, Captain Mallett?”
“Well, I don’t know that unlucky is the
proper word, but he has always stood between me and
success; at least, he always did, for it is some years
since our paths have crossed.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, I have no objection, but there is not
a great deal to tell.
“I was at school with—I won’t
mention his name. We were about the same age.
He was a bully. I interfered with him, we had
a fight, and I scored my first and only success over
him. It was a very tough fight—by
far the toughest I ever had. I was stronger than
he, but he was the more active. I fancied that
it would not be very difficult to thrash him, but
found that I had made a great mistake. It was
a long fight, and it was only because I was in better
condition that I won at last.
“Well, you know when boys fight at school, in
most cases they become better friends afterwards;
but it was not so here. He refused to shake hands
with me, and muttered something about its being his
turn next time. Till then he had not been considered
a first-rate hand at anything; he was one of those
fellows who saunter through school, get up just enough
lessons to rub along comfortably, never take any prominent
part in games, but have a little set of their own,
and hold themselves aloof from school in general.
“Once or twice when we had played cricket he
had done so excellently that it was a grievance that
he would not play regularly, and there was a sort
of general idea that if he chose he could do most
things well. After that fight he changed altogether.
He took to cricket in downright earnest, and was soon
acknowledged to be the best bat and best bowler in
the school. Before that it had been regarded
as certain that when the captain left I should be
elected, but when the time came he got a majority of
votes. I should not have minded that, for I recognised
that he was a better player than I, but I fancied
that he had not done it fairly, for many fellows whom
I regarded as certain to support me turned round at
the last moment.
