"Still we are having a jolly good time off the field."
"Are we?"
"Oh, yes; we are prefects; we haven't got to do any work, and it's interesting coaching the kids."
Foster looked dubiously at him. He had no side to coach. He also had to do some work for his Sandhurst exam. next term. But Gordon's crown was as yet too fresh to feel the tarnishing damp of disappointment.
October went by with its red-gold leaves and amber sunlight. November swept in bringing a procession of long evenings and flickering lights. The first boom of the war fever died down. The Fifteen played listlessly, Upper followed Upper. Puntabout followed puntabout. No one cared who was in the side. Foster was left out—and thanked heaven!
"I am about sick of being cursed off my feet, and told I shall be no good in the trenches because I miss my passes. 'The Bull' has gone war-mad."
Gordon had to keep in the side; it would not do for the House captain to get a reputation for slackness. His play lacked its old fire and dash, but was still good enough to earn him his place. He knew he was going off; that he was not nearly so good as he had been the year before; the thought worried him. But still A-K Junior was doing very well.
One Saturday evening there came the sound of thumping feet down the passage, someone banged himself against the door, and a well-known voice was shouting:
"Hullo, Caruthers, my lad!"