“Naturally,” said he, “a fellow who wants to write an anonymous letter doesn’t use his own handwriting.”
Rouse had moved to his side and was reading it through again with solemn eyes. At last he spoke.
“Do you think that’s true? Whoever he is, do you think he’s right?”
“I think he’s off his nut.”
Rouse laid the paper upon the table and carefully smoothed it out. Then he sat down and began to read it through all over again.
It was quite a short note. It had no proper beginning and no ending. It purported to be a mere statement of fact.
“There is a general feeling in the school,” it read, “that as you have had your ambition and led the school team on the footer field you ought to give way now. The fellows think that if it’s a question of sacrificing either you or Mr Nicholson, it ought not to be Mr Nicholson who must suffer for what was your idea. Some of us have decided to let you know this.”
For a little while Rouse sat with his head propped in his hands staring at it fixedly, and eventually he sat back.
“Whoever it was,” said he, “he read my thoughts very well indeed. What he’s written down is exactly what I’ve been thinking all day. The only thing I’m afraid of is this. Supposing I go to the Head and give in. Supposing I promise to play under Roe and get the school to recognise him as captain. What will the Head do? Will he play the game? I’ve got a horrible fear at the back of my head that he won’t. I can picture the way he’ll smile. He’ll say that he’s very glad to hear it. And then if I say: ‘Now, will you let Mr Nicholson stay?’ he’ll open his eyes at me and say: ‘Good gracious, boy, I’m not here to make bargains. My decision of last night was not a threat; it was a punishment.’ And then I shall have humbled the school for nothing.”
Terence moved towards him again and gripped him by the shoulders.