Rouse jumped up with sudden passion and threw out his arms.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t take it in. I’ve lived for this one thing all the while I’ve been at school. To be captain of Rugger at Harley has seemed the greatest thing a fellow like me could wish for. I’m not clever. I’ve got brains that slop about in my head like sodden tea-leaves. The only thing I can do is play football. Not only that though. There’s some sort of third-rate talent in me that’s a gift for organisation, I think. As soon as I knew I was going to be skipper I began to plan footer for every kind of fellow in the school. While I’ve been talking of other things, all the time I’m fooling about, I’m really thinking out house Rugger, and games for colts, and the kind of training I’ll give the First Fifteen. I’m brim full of it. This man doesn’t understand. We must give him time.”
Terence watched him sympathetically.
“It’s all right. The school won’t let him do a thing like that. There’ll be a rebellion.”
“That’s just it,” put in Toby thoughtfully. “It’s something of that sort I’m afraid of. If it comes to a fight, what’s going to happen to school footer? We play Greyminster on Saturday week. The team’s got to be chosen and practised. If we haven’t a captain what’s to be done? Is the match to be scratched—and if so, how many others will go the same way? Is it simply going to be an empty season right through the term?”
“You needn’t worry about that,” answered Rouse, with sudden steadiness. “If it comes to it, I’ll chuck in. Smythe can be captain. He’s the same year as I am and he’s secretary as it is.”
“Smythe is bottom of the Sixth,” answered Terence. “He can’t even add up.”
“All right, then, there’s you,” retorted Rouse. “You’ve got plenty of brains. You’re a prefect. We’ll make you captain.”
Terence turned on him.
“If you think I’m going to take on a job that they think is too good for you” he snapped, “you’re a bigger ass than I take you for. What on earth are you talking about?”