“I think whoever has started the thing is a pretty average-sized idiot. He’s bound to get caught some time or other, and then out he goes. The Old Man wouldn’t think twice about sacking a chap of that sort.”
“A chap of that sort,” said Clowes, “will take jolly good care he isn’t caught. But it’s rather sport, isn’t it?”
And he went off to his study.
Next day there was further evidence that the League was an actual going concern. When Trevor came down to breakfast, he found a letter by his plate. It was printed, as the card had been. It was signed “The President of the League.” And the purport of it was that the League did not wish Barry to continue to play for the first fifteen.
V
MILL RECEIVES VISITORS
Trevor’s first idea was that somebody had sent the letter for a joke,—Clowes for choice.
He sounded him on the subject after breakfast.
“Did you send me that letter?” he inquired, when Clowes came into his study to borrow a Sportsman.
“What letter? Did you send the team for tomorrow up to the sporter? I wonder what sort of a lot the Town are bringing.”