"That gives me nearly two months. One can turn round in two months; and if I'm satisfied as to my coaching I'll certainly try at Aldershot. But what has a fellow to do on the half-holidays now? No footer, and one might do enough practice after tea for the Heavy. I wish Kipling would write a book every week. He is the only fellow in England who can write."
So Acton, on the half-holidays, prepared to read his novels by his fireside. Not that he was particularly fond of toasting himself, but because, for him, it was all he could do.
But Corker came to his rescue. The old man, after having had his back to the wall for an age, consented to monitors being allowed to cycle by themselves, and even to be chaperon to any fags who cared to run with them, and—important proviso—whom the monitors did not object to. Otherwise the old rule of no cycling sans house-master was in force.
Acton thereupon invested in a swell machine, and he and young Bourne, or Grim, or Wilson on the hired article, would cover no end of country between dinner and roll call.
By-and-by Phil noticed that his brother was getting pretty thick with Acton.
"Rather thick with Acton, Jack? I don't think he'll do you any good."
"He has, anyhow, Phil."
"How?"
Jack explained.
"I'm glad you licked the animal, young 'un; but, all the same, I wish some other fellow had seen you through."