“Ah, Traill,” said Moy-Thompson. “Sit down. I have been wanting to have a talk with you. I hope that this time is quite convenient?”
“Perfectly,” said Traill.
“I've been intending to come down and look at your form, but I have had no opportunity. I must try and manage next week.”
Traill said nothing. Moy-Thompson smiled at him. “I hope that you have had no trouble with discipline.”
“None. The boys are excellent.”
“Ah! that is splendid.” There was a pause; then the beard was suddenly lifted, and a glance was flashed across the table. “I hope that you take your work seriously, Mr. Traill.” Traill flushed a little. “I think that I do,” he said.
“That is well.... Because we are—ah! um—a great institution, a very great institution. We owe our traditions—um, eh—a very serious and determined attention to detail. To work together, as one man, for the good of our race, that must be our object. Yes. No divisions, all in friendly brotherhood—um, yes.” Traill said nothing.
“I hope that you realize this. We want every energy, every nerve, at work. We must not waste a moment, nor grudge every instant to the cause we have at heart. Um, yes, I hope that you agree, Mr. Traill.”
“I hope,” Traill said, “that you have not found me wanting, that you have nothing to complain of. I think that I have worked—”
“Worked? Ah, yes.” Moy-Thompson caught him up, cracking his fingers together. “But what about play, eh? What about play?” Traill flushed. “As to football—”