As he stopped, the set, that had remained spellbound, burst into a hilarious shriek of joy. Everyone heard it; even Claremont woke up and asked what it was. Arthur, the school custos, talks of it to this day.
And at this point the Chief comes into the story. He was showing the parents in question round the studies when he heard an uproar proceeding from somewhere near the cloisters. He excused himself from the parents, ran downstairs, and tracked the noise to Trundle's class-room. He entered. Never before had he seen disorder on such a generous scale. He looked round.
"Mr Trundle—er—what er—set is this?"
"The extra French set, Headmaster."
The Chief half smiled. He walked out without another word.
Next term there was no extra French set.
The ragging of Trundle, however, was merely regarded relaxation from the serious business of life. In an Easter term football is the only thing that any respectable man will really worry about. And Gordon, judged on these grounds, and his friends with him, would most certainly pass into the most select society circle. The Thirds this year was a terribly perplexing problem. Simonds had not taken enough trouble with his juniors the term before. This term he was working hard enough, but it was a bit late in the day to begin. On the first Saturday of the term a scratch side took sixty-five points off the prospective Thirds side.
"If you play as badly as that on the day you'll lose by forty points," growled Simonds, "and you'll damned well deserve a beating, too."
"Curse the man," muttered Lovelace. "Whose bloody fault is it but his, I should like to know? He is a disgrace to the House, working for some rotten scholarship when he ought to be training on our juniors. Rotten swine."
"Well, he's pretty well all right this term, at any rate," said Gordon. "For the Lord's sake don't go grousing about; or we sha'n't keep the score under eighty, let alone ninety. If we lose, we lose; and, my God, we'll make 'em play for it."