Altogether, it was admitted that the system of selection was on the whole impartial, although, as a matter of course, it involved bitter disappointments to many an enthusiastic and deserving cricketer.
Our heroes, being juniors, were of course out of it, and they warmly adopted the indignation of the Den against the gross tyranny of excluding the rising generation from taking part in the great school event.
But Dick was not a youth whose inmost soul could be satisfied with mere indignation. If a thing struck him as unjust, the desire to rid himself of the injustice took possession of him at the same time.
“Georgie,” said he to Heathcote, the day before the match, “it’s all rot! We must go, I tell you.”
“How can we? We should get bowled out, to a certainty, before we started.”
“But, Georgie, it’s no end of a day, fellows say; you get put up like lords at Grandcourt, and the spread afterwards is something scrumptious.”
“Yes, but what chance should we stand of that when every one will know we’re mitching?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t say anything if once we got there. I tell you, old man, I’d risk a good bit to do it. Think of the crow we’d have at the next Den.”
“How should we get over, though?”
“Oh, I know some of the Fourth. They might smuggle us into their trap, or we could hang on somehow. Bless you! the fellows will be too festive to notice us. What do you say?”