There was no buzz. No one sprang to his feet. The silence was deadly. It was as clear as day that it was going to take them a few minutes to believe it.
Toby gave them those few minutes, and when he judged that it had thoroughly got home on them he spoke again.
“The Headmaster wished me to tell you,” he said, “that the captain of football must be a senior in the Sixth Form.”
He did not say more. There was really no need to tell them that he must also be a boy who wore the cloak of dignity—that one proviso limited their choice sufficiently.
“His particular wish is that, if practicable, the captain of football should be the captain of the school,” said Toby. Then he made a gesture of finality and sat down.
There came now a slight shuffling of feet. The counsellors were turning one to the other; there was hoarse whispering, occasional sharp sounds of absolute amazement.
At last the captain of the school rose in his seat. He did not play football at all. He made up verses that didn’t rhyme and secured good prizes for them. Nevertheless he was a good fellow, and it was clear that the news that he might be expected to lead the Fifteen on to the field in cap and gown had had a pronounced effect upon him. He was really quite shaken up.
“But does the Headmaster know the practice at this school, sir?”
“Oh yes,” said Toby. “He knows what it always has been ever since I can remember. I’ve done all that a man could do to persuade him to respect our unwritten laws. The Headmaster, however, is a man of very strong views. He is determined on a new method.”
“Well, I’m blowed,” said the captain of the school, and sat down with a jerk.