"Which makes it a blacker shame than ever," said Bourne, wrathfully.
"I've inquired casually of the Fifth, and it seems our friend once distinguished himself in the gym. Lost his temper—as per recipe—and Hodgson had to knock him down before he could see that we put on the gloves here for a little healthy exercise, and the pleasure of lifting some of the public schools championships. He, however, apologized to Hodgson, but I don't think he'll do the honourable here."
"Then, the chief attraction of the beauty is its temper?"
"Or want of it."
"Who is he, anyhow?"
"Yorkshire people, I believe. Own half a town and no end of coin. Been to school in France and Germany, and consequently came here rather late. I know his head-piece Is all right, and I imagine his amiability is only a little foreign blood working its way out. He will be with us in the Sixth at Christmas."
"Delightful prospect. What I want to know is—how are we to settle this business as far as he is concerned? Ought Moore to know?"
"I don't think so. Never trouble Corker more than you can help, old man. That's a tip for you when I'm gone. Besides, masters generally mishandle affairs of this sort. I rather fancy I'll put it to Aspinall when he pulls through."
"Do. One thing, though, is pretty certain. He'll never get his cap as long as I'm captain of the footer eleven. I'd rather come out of it myself."
"Of course. I see there's no help for that, but, all the same, it will make complications. What a pity he can play!"