Rouse opened his mouth to reply but his final comment was cut short. Toby Nicholson had risen and there had come a respectful hush. Then, because it was his first official appearance on his return to Harley, cheering broke out. He coloured awkwardly and stood for a minute waiting the chance to speak, and eventually he began. He spoke just long enough to explain the position to them, and to remind those who might not have realised the fact that the school must certainly have suffered in reputation by the leanness of the term just past.
“The way to win back our name as one of the first sporting schools in England,” said Toby, “is not to attempt a late cut at a football season, but to put the whole of our heart and soul into boxing and the sports. For that reason you need a captain who can really lead the school into a record year. Boxing has always counted for more at Harley than at many other schools, and this term it must count as the only game worth while. We want every fellow in the school who’s capable to try his hand at it. Only so can we find the very best talent in the school.” He stopped. “Who is proposed?” he said after a moment.
Without delay a peculiarly villainous-looking youth rose from his seat and stood for a moment waiting.
Rouse nodded towards him.
“That lad has a nice open face,” he observed gravely.
“Open?” whispered Terence. “You wait till he laughs. It opens from ear to ear.”
There came the muffled sound of a suffocated guffaw, and at the same moment the terrible young man spoke.
“I propose Coles,” said he, “the senior old colour.”
“I second that,” declared another, rising swiftly from a corner seat.
There was a moment’s hesitation, then a totally different type of fellow bobbed up from a position close to Rouse. It was Smythe, and he spoke with vigour.