Coles shook his head.
“I don’t think that for a minute.”
“Well, I do,” opined Betteridge, from a modest position on the outskirts of the group.
Coles turned and looked at him as if pointing him out with his beak-like nose.
“And,” added the interrupter, “so do a good many other people.”
“You’re all making a great mistake,” said Coles. “In years to come you’ll be sorry you mucked your Rugger like this. Personally I was always in favour of Rouse as skipper, and I think that to have brought his own son here was a beastly thing for the Head to have done, and so does Roe himself. But that’s no reason for cutting off your own nose to spite your face. It’s agreed that we don’t lose any dignity by indulging in house friendlies, and if we’re going to play a match let’s get out our best side. I believe Roe is a very hot forward, and even if we won’t let him be captain that’s no reason why the poor blighter shouldn’t have a game. He needn’t be skipper.”
“Ah!” said Saville, “that’s just it. He’ll want to be.”
Coles made a sly gesture with his hand.
“You leave it to me. I’ll have a word with him. He’ll quite see your point of view. We’ll fix that up all right.”
“We should like him to come on the field walking a modest distance behind everybody else,” said Betteridge. “That’s what we should like. You might tell him that, will you?”