Toby moved forward, then he sat down wretchedly on the edge of the table.
“Look here, shipmate,” said he, “do you mean to say that he found you singing a part-song with the house porter, and that thereupon you hit him in the ribs with the leg of a table?”
“The honest truth,” admitted Rouse cheerfully, and passed a moistened finger solemnly across his throat. “I must have looked like a sweep too ... hair all tousled ... thick, rich soil all over my hands.... I’d been digging about in Compton’s store, you see, raking out furniture and things for our Henry’s study.”
Toby looked at him forlornly.
“Well, the new Headmaster,” said he, “came over here entirely to see how you lived when nobody was looking, and if that’s how he found things you’ve just about put the lid on it.”
Rouse looked pained.
“Why, sir?”
“Because,” said Toby, coming up beside him and speaking quietly, “he’s decided you’re not a suitable chap to be captain of Rugby football.”
The words had the instantaneous effect that Toby knew they would have. Rouse the clown became abruptly a grown man. He tightened in every muscle until at last he seemed rigid. Then he looked Toby in the eyes with quick sincerity.
“What do you mean, sir?” he said. “What does he——”