Not far from Dumber stood a group of small boys, including the unhappy Fluff—unhappy because he was not playing, despite arduous training (entirely to please John) and systematic coaching. His failure meant further separation from John, whom, it will be remembered, he would have been allowed to call by his Christian name, had he been included amongst the Torpids. Of late, Fluff had not seen much of John, and in his dark hours he allowed his thoughts to linger, not unpleasantly sometimes, upon premature death and John's subsequent remorse.
Meantime, Scaife and Desmond were playing a furious game which must have proved successful had it not been for the admirable steadiness of the enemy. Lawrence watched their efforts with compressed lips and frowning brows. He knew—who better?—that his cracks were tearing themselves to tatters; but his protests were drowned by the shrill cheers of the fags.
"Rutfords—Rutfor-r-r-r-r-ds! Go it, old Demon!—Jolly well played, Cæsar!—Sky him![17]—Well skied, sir!—Ah-h-h-h! Well given—well taken!"
The last, long-drawn-out exclamation proclaimed that "Yards"[18] had been given to Scaife right in front of Damer's base. Damer's retreated; Scaife, with heaving chest, balanced the big ball between the tips of his fingers.
"Oh-h-h-h-h!"
Scaife had missed an easy shot. Lawrence could see that the boy was trembling with disappointment and mortification. Barbed arrows from Damer's small boys pierced Manorite hearts.
"Jolly well boshed, Scaife!—Good, kind, old Demon!—Thank you, Scaife!—" and like derisive approbation rolled from lip to lip. The Caterpillar turned to Lovell.
"Showing temper, ain't he?"
"Yes," said Lovell.
"Clever chap," said the Caterpillar, reflectively; "but one is reminded that a stream can't rise higher than its source. Not mine that—the governor's! Cæsar is facing the chaff with a grin."