"Never mind, Verney," he said cheerily; "the Manor will be cock-house at Torpids next year, and I venture to prophesy that you'll be Captain."
"Oh, thanks, Lawrence," said John.
But, much as he appreciated this tribute from the great man, and much as it served to mitigate the pangs of defeat, a yet happier stroke of fortune was about to befall him. Desmond, who always walked up from the football field with Scaife, conferred upon John the honour of his company.
"Where's Scaife?" said John.
"The Demon is demoniac," said Desmond. "He's lost his hair, and he blames me. Well, I did my best, and so did he, and there's no more to be said. It's a bore that we shall be too old to play next year. I told the Demon that if we had to be beaten, I would sooner take a licking from Damer's than any other house; and he told me that he believed I wanted 'em to win. When a fellow's in that sort of blind rage, I call him dotty, don't you?"
"Yes," said John.
"You played jolly well, Verney; I expect Lawrence told you so."
"He did say something decent," John replied.
The Caterpillar joined them as they were passing through the stile. "We should have won," he said deliberately, "if the Demon hadn't behaved like a rank outsider."
"Scaife is my pal," said Desmond, hotly.