“Good night, Syddington!” echoed Beck.
The boy thought he could already detect a different tone in their voices, a foretaste of that contempt with which in future they were to consider him.
“Good night; good night, sir!” he answered, miserably. Then, with the door opening under his hand, he turned, his face pale but resolute, with something that was almost a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Mr. Gardiner, I wish you’d change that line-up, please.”
“Of course, if there’s anything——”
“I’d like Lane to go in at right half instead of Servis. Thank you, sir. Good night!”
When the door had closed coach and trainer faced each other smilingly.
“I didn’t think he could do it,” said Beck.
“Nor did I,” answered Gardiner. “And he didn’t.”