Burr major slipped off his jacket and held it up in the dusk to point out a label inside the collar, where, worked in blue silk upon white satin, was the name of the maker, his own father.
“Yes, that’s yours,” said Mr Rebble in a disappointed tone. “I thought that the mistake might have been made. But the vest—are you sure of that?”
“Oh yes,” said Burr major, who then looked inside the collar and found the same maker’s name.
“I thought that, sir,” said Burr major; “but I could feel that they were my things as soon as I put them on. I say, has any fellow taken my watch for a game?”
There was silence at first, then a murmur of, “No, no, no;” and, as it was getting too dark now to resume the search, we all trooped back to the schoolroom to sit and talk over the one event which had spoiled what would otherwise have been a most enjoyable day, for, as Tom Mercer said when we went up to bed,—
“It’s nicer for those Hastings chaps to have won. They’ve gone back jollier. By and by we shall be going over to play them, and then we shall be in the eleven, and must win.”
A pause.
“I said, ‘And then we must win.’”
“Yes, I heard you.”
“Then why didn’t you speak?”