As they left the house and started across towards the hall where the general meeting was to be held Rouse became peculiarly quiet. Once Terence turned to him and noted the brightness of his eyes, and Rouse looked up and spoke.
“I wish I hadn’t talked so much about my blissful content,” he observed. “I’m beginning to feel a bit different. It’s perfectly true that nobody who knows Coles wants him to be captain of boxing, and it would be a jolly good lesson to him if he missed it, particularly during a term when we’re going all out to smash the record, but it isn’t everybody who does know Coles.”
“Well?”
“And,” demanded Rouse, “why should they want me anyhow? I’m not the only fellow in the school who goes in for games. I had my innings last term, and I played it about as cleverly as a fellow who goes into a nursery to amuse a kid and promptly treads on his balloon. If anybody does mention my name at the meeting as a possible captain, the probability is that chaps will get up one by one and go out groaning. I should say that most of the fellows are sick to death of my name. That’s how I feel about it anyway.”
“You feel like that about it,” said Terence gently, “because you’re batty. It isn’t your fault. We must learn not to laugh at you for it. You just can’t help it. You’re batty, that’s all.”
“Not at all. I was as keen as mustard to learn to box, especially from a man like Mr Carr, but I’d just as soon box for the school like an ordinary chap as be stuck on top and made captain.”
“They want you as captain,” said Terence, “because the whole school will follow you and do whatever you say, and they want the whole school to go boxing mad. It may interest you to know that I intend to don the gloves and clout a few people myself in due course.”
Rouse shook his head.
“Everybody who’s spoken to me,” concluded Terence, “everybody who is anybody——”
“Nobody’s anybody very much,” observed Rouse, “after they’ve once been seen speaking to you.”