The result of this conservation was that Sherriff, one of the steadiest second-rate bats in the house, was absent from the practice, and a hue-and-cry was made after him. He was found working hard in his study.
“I really can’t come to-day. I’m in for the exam, you know, and it’ll take me a tremendous grind to lick Redgrave.”
“But,” said Stafford, who was the ambassador, “it’s all the same for all of us. If every fellow said the same, it would be all up with house cricket; and we wanted to turn out such a hot team this year, too. Come on. You’ll do your work twice as well after it; and the ground’s just in perfect condition for batting to-day.”
Sherriff was not proof against this wily appeal. It had been an effort to him to break the rule. It was no effort now to decide to keep it. So he jumped into his flannels and took his beloved bat, and made a long score that morning against Wake’s bowling, and was happy. Felgate mentally abused him for his pusillanimity, but saw no reason, for all that, for not turning the incident to account. He proclaimed poor Sherriff's wrongs to a few of the other malcontents.
“It’s hard lines,” said he, “that just because of this wretched rule, Sherriff is to lose his scholarship. He can’t possibly win it unless he’s able to read every moment of his time; and that our grave and reverend seniors don’t mean to allow.”
“Brutal shame,” said Munger, “hounding him down like that I’ve half a mind to stick out.”
“That’s what Sherriff said,” sneered Felgate, “but he had to knuckle under.”
“Catch me knuckling under!” said Munger.
He stayed away the next practice day, and, much to his mortification, nobody took the slightest notice of his absence.
“You see,” said Felgate, “if only one or two of you stand steady, they can’t compel you to play. It’s ridiculous.”