Carr felt it more, perhaps, than any other boy in Seymour’s because he was constantly in Coles’ society and was borne down by the shadow of it. Football would have been his one great relaxation. Rugger would have helped him to throw off the yoke. It would have brought him more into touch with fellows like Rouse and Terence Nicholson, whose very presence filled a room with optimism.
Henry Hope did not desert him, but he clearly considered him a perplexing and unsatisfactory young man, and he seemed to regret his silence over the thing that mattered most; nevertheless, he persevered daily. The fact that he had at least some kind of hold over Coles, if he could only get the opportunity to use it, was, moreover, a considerable comfort to him.
These grey days had their effect too upon Saville, and on one of them he wandered wretchedly into Rouse’s study and stood like a man with a hump on his back before the trio whom he found there.
“Don’t stand there with that weight on your shoulders,” said Rouse. “Take it off and put it down in a corner.”
Saville straightened his back bravely.
“It’s the hump,” said he. “It’s enough to give anyone the hump. Things are rotten bad.”
He paused as if to let this information sink in. The others did not deny it.
Saville sighed. “It’s not so bad for me, or chaps like me. What is so frightful is having to stand by and watch this dry-rot setting in amongst all the middle school chaps. It’s like watching a lot of strikers being starved into submission.”
Rouse glanced at him significantly.
“You think they’ll give in?”