And now Acton came like an evil genius on the scene. In a word, he had determined that if he could in any way baulk poor Phil's ambition, he would. If by his means he could put Phil out of the running for the captaincy it should be done. If he could succeed, this success would make up and to spare for his two former defeats. Therefore, warily and cautiously, he set to work.
Acton himself was not much of a cricketer; the game was not, as it were, second nature to him, as it was to Phil, but he was a very smart field—cover was his position—and he could slog heavily, and often with success. He threw himself heartily into the game, and crept rapidly up the ladder of improvement, until Biffen's whispered that their shining light stood a good chance of getting into the Eleven. "That is," said Biffen's crowd, "if Bourne will run straight and give a good man his flannels. But after the 'footer' fraud, what can one expect?" I heard of this, and straightway told Phil.
"Oh, they need not fear. If Acton deserves his flannels, he will get them. I've nothing whatever against his cricket."
Acton learned this, and instantly his new-found zeal for cricket slackened considerably.
"Oh!" said he to himself, "I can't blister you there, Bourne, eh? I can't pose as the deserving cricketer kept out of the Eleven by a jealous cad of a captain, eh? So I'll try another tack to keep you in evil odour, Mr. Bourne."
Acton did not turn up at the nets that night, and when Worcester noticed this, Acton calmly sailed on his new tack.
"What's the good of sweating away at the nets, Dick? I'll not get my flannels in any case."
"Oh yes, you will. Bourne has said he's got nothing against your cricket."
"And you believe that, Dick?" said Acton, with a whistle of contemptuous incredulity.
"I do," said Dick. "But you are not exactly quite the flier at cricket that you are at 'footer,' so you can't afford to slack up now."