I was to have ocular proof of his new ascendancy before the end of the term. The evening of the last Saturday I was condemned to spend in Hall. There was a high, three-panelled board over the fireplace, carved with the names of monitors and members of either Eleven, and, as I was at that time credited with some facility in the use of a chisel, the unanimous vote of my fellows entrusted me with the arduous task of bringing the jealously guarded record up to date. Planting a chair in the fireplace, to the enduring mortification of a chestnut-roasting party, I settled to my work. The fags gradually resumed their interrupted occupations, and in the intervals of hammering I caught fragments of triangular conversation.
"I say, Raney," Palmer began, "is it true you're coming to watch the Cup Tie on Tuesday?"
O'Rane, seated for purposes of his own on the top of the lockers, six feet up the side of the wall, grunted and went on reading.
"It isn't compulsory, you know," Palmer went on. "You won't be thrashed if you don't."
"Silence, canaille," O'Rane murmured.
"I suppose you know the way to Little End? Across the court and under the arch.... I'll show you, if you like. The Matheson colours are blue and white. The game's quite easy to follow. There are two goals...."
O'Rane yawned indolently, closed his book and threw it at the speaker.
"See here, sonny, you'll rupture yourself if you do too much funny-dog. I'm just coming to your dime-show to watch you beach-combers doing your stunt. And when it's all over I want you to start in and tell me what good you think you've done."
One or two voices raised themselves improvingly in defence of sport, the tradition of fair play, working for one's side and not for one's self, physical fitness and the like—much as Loring had done a few weeks earlier.
"You bat-eared lot!" was O'Rane's withering commentary.