"You've turned on the searchlight, Roger, as you always do, you clever beggar! Why, to be sure, that was a rotten business. You told Harwood so."
"It was cruel all round, and hurt the school more than it did Fluffy Jim. Your big toe mayn't be right for months, and what guarantee have we that we shan't lose next term's replay by a couple of goals or more? The maddening part of the affair is that Fluffy Jim couldn't have got to Walsbridge on his own. Somebody paid his fare!"
Dick coughed uneasily. Unsuspicious by nature, believing good of everybody, he had already wiped from his mind the mortification of his lost triumph.
"See here, Roger—no offence, old man, but aren't you in some danger of exaggerating a thoughtless lark into a deep-dyed melodramatic plot? I'll convince you that you are, dear boy. Here's Harwood's own account of the match—a top-notch piece of reporting, too. Listen to the last paragraph.
"'It was heartrending,' he writes, 'to see this Titanic struggle brought to an inconclusive finish, just as the fruits of well-won victory were at our gallant captain's lips. No one can guess what motive was at work in the village boy's mind when he scrambled in to kick the ball from Forge's toes. It is charitable to assume his intentions were good—probably he thought to win fadeless laurels for himself and Foxenby by netting the winning goal. Such intricate things as football rules, involving the replay of interrupted cup-ties, could have no meaning for him. The whole thing seems, at first blush, a disaster beyond compensation. But are we not entitled to hope that good may yet come out of evil—that even the great Octopus may be unable to prevent us winning the replay by such a handsome margin that none can dispute our supremacy? Such a wish, I am sure, is in the heart of every Fox who witnessed that glorious and unforgettable game.'"
Roger stuck it through in silence, repressing an impatient gesture. Useless to "slate" Luke Harwood while Dick Forge so manifestly credited the Foxonian editor's loyalty. The paragraph was engagingly sincere in tone, and by his able control of the school magazine "Old Wykeham's Pet Fox" always had the last word. So Roger gulped down his bile in an effort to fall in with his chum's mood.
"He puts it well," said Roger, "and we can admire his editorial skill without waiving our right to criticism. I'm open to wager, for instance, that of twelve pages this month he gives quite nine to the affairs of Holbeck's House exclusively. Am I right or not?"
"Oh, quite right, Roger. Rather natural, you know—he eats and sleeps there."
"Getting one-eyed in the process. Now, why shouldn't Rooke's House be more in the picture? We're a robust lot, even though we don't wear the carpet threadbare on prize-giving days. They produce the most scholars; we turn out the athletes. Honours are evenly divided, but the Foxonian's space is not!"
"Granting all that, old spitfire, what remedy have we?"