But John still stared at Scaife. The boy's dishevelled appearance, his wild eyes, his shrill laughter, revealed another Scaife.
"You'd better come, Scaife," he faltered.
"Not I," said Scaife. He spoke in a curiously high-pitched voice, quite unlike his usual cool, quiet tone. "Wait a mo'—I'm not Trieve's fag. I'm nobody's fag now, am I?"
He appealed to the crowd. It was an unwritten rule at the Manor that members of the House cricket or football Elevens were exempt from fagging. But the common law of fagging at Harrow holds that any lower boy is bound to obey the Monitors, provided such obedience is not contrary to the rules of the school. In practice, however, no boy is fagged outside his own house, except for cricket-fagging in the summer term.
"Fag? Not you? Tell Miss Trieve to mind her own business."
John departed, feeling that an older and wiser boy might have tact to cope with this situation. For him, no course of action presented itself except delivering what amounted to a declaration of war.
"Won't come? Is he mad?"
"'Can't come,' they said."
"Oh, can't come? Has he hurt himself—sprained anything?"
John was truthful (more of a habit than some people believe). He told the truth, just as some boys quibble and prevaricate, simply and naturally. But now, he hesitated. If he hinted—a hint would suffice—that Scaife had hurt himself—and what more likely after the furious bit of playing which had secured his "fez"?—Trieve, probably, would do nothing. John felt in his bones that Trieve would be glad of an excuse to do—nothing.