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CHAPTER VI - TREVOR REMAINS FIRM
The most immediate effect of telling anybody not to do a thing is to
make him do it, in order to assert his independence. Trevor's first act
on receipt of the letter was to include Barry in the team against the
Town. It was what he would have done in any case, but, under the
circumstances, he felt a peculiar pleasure in doing it. The incident
also had the effect of recalling to his mind the fact that he had tried
Barry in the first instance on his own responsibility, without
consulting the committee. The committee of the first fifteen consisted
of the two old colours who came immediately after the captain on the
list. The powers of a committee varied according to the determination
and truculence of the members of it. On any definite and important
step, affecting the welfare of the fifteen, the captain theoretically
could not move without their approval. But if the captain happened to
be strong-minded and the committee weak, they were apt to be slightly
out of it, and the captain would develop a habit of consulting them a
day or so after he had done a thing. He would give a man his colours,
and inform the committee of it on the following afternoon, when the
thing was done and could not be repealed.
Trevor was accustomed to ask the advice of his lieutenants fairly
frequently. He never gave colours, for instance, off his own bat. It
seemed to him that it might be as well to learn what views Milton and
Allardyce had on the subject of Barry, and, after the Town team had
gone back across the river, defeated by a goal and a try to nil, he
changed and went over to Seymour's to interview Milton.
Milton was in an arm-chair, watching Renford brew tea. His was one of
the few studies in the school in which there was an arm-chair. With the
majority of his contemporaries, it would only run to the portable kind
that fold up.
"Come and have some tea, Trevor," said Milton.
"Thanks. If there's any going."
"Heaps. Is there anything to eat, Renford?"
The fag, appealed to on this important point, pondered darkly for a
moment.
"There _was_ some cake," he said.
"That's all right," interrupted Milton, cheerfully. "Scratch the cake.
I ate it before the match. Isn't there anything else?"
Milton had a healthy appetite.
"Then there used to be some biscuits."
"Biscuits are off. I finished 'em yesterday. Look here, young Renford,
what you'd better do is cut across to the shop and get some more cake
and some more biscuits, and tell 'em to put it down to me. And don't be
long."
"A miles better idea would be to send him over to Donaldson's to fetch
something from my study," suggested Trevor. "It isn't nearly so far,
and I've got heaps of stuff."
"Ripping. Cut over to Donaldson's, young Renford. As a matter of fact,"
he added, confidentially, when the emissary had vanished, "I'm not half
sure that the other dodge would have worked. They seem to think at the
shop that I've had about enough things on tick lately. I haven't
settled up for last term yet. I've spent all I've got on this study.
What do you think of those photographs?"
Trevor got up and inspected them. They filled the mantelpiece and most
of the wall above it. They were exclusively theatrical photographs, and
of a variety to suit all tastes. For the earnest student of the drama
there was Sir Henry Irving in _The Bells_, and Mr Martin Harvey in
_The Only Way._ For the admirers of the merely beautiful there
were Messrs Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell.
"Not bad," said Trevor. "Beastly waste of money."
"Waste of money!" Milton was surprised and pained at the criticism.
"Why, you must spend your money on _something."_
"Rot, I call it," said Trevor. "If you want to collect something, why
don't you collect something worth having?"
Just then Renford came back with the supplies.
"Thanks," said Milton, "put 'em down. Does the billy boil, young
Renford?"
Renford asked for explanatory notes.
"You're a bit of an ass at times, aren't you?" said Milton, kindly.
"What I meant was, is the tea ready? If it is, you can scoot. If it
isn't, buck up with it."
A sound of bubbling and a rush of steam from the spout of the kettle
proclaimed that the billy did boil. Renford extinguished the Etna, and
left the room, while Milton, murmuring vague formulae about "one
spoonful for each person and one for the pot", got out of his chair
with a groan--for the Town match had been an energetic one--and began
to prepare tea.
"What I really came round about--" began Trevor.
"Half a second. I can't find the milk."
He went to the door, and shouted for Renford. On that overworked
youth's appearance, the following dialogue took place.
"Where's the milk?"
"What milk?"
"My milk."
"There isn't any." This in a tone not untinged with triumph, as if the
speaker realised that here was a distinct score to him.
"No milk?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"You never had any."
"Well, just cut across--no, half a second. What are you doing
downstairs?"
"Having tea."
"Then you've got milk."
"Only a little." This apprehensively.
"Bring it up. You can have what we leave."
Disgusted retirement of Master Renford.
"What I really came about," said Trevor again, "was business."
"Colours?" inquired Milton, rummaging in the tin for biscuits with
sugar on them. "Good brand of biscuit you keep, Trevor."
"Yes. I think we might give Alexander and Parker their third."
"All right. Any others?"
"Barry his second, do you think?"
"Rather. He played a good game today. He's an improvement on
Rand-Brown."
"Glad you think so. I was wondering whether it was the right thing to
do, chucking Rand-Brown out after one trial like that. But still, if
you think Barry's better--"
"Streets better. I've had heaps of chances of watching them and
comparing them, when they've been playing for the house. It isn't only
that Rand-Brown can't tackle, and Barry can. Barry takes his passes
much better, and doesn't lose his head when he's pressed."
"Just what I thought," said Trevor. "Then you'd go on playing him for
the first?"
"Rather. He'll get better every game, you'll see, as he gets more used
to playing in the first three-quarter line. And he's as keen as
anything on getting into the team. Practises taking passes and that
sort of thing every day."
"Well, he'll get his colours if we lick Ripton."
"We ought to lick them. They've lost one of their forwards, Clifford, a
red-haired chap, who was good out of touch. I don't know if you
remember him."
"I suppose I ought to go and see Allardyce about these colours, now.
Good-bye."
There was running and passing on the Monday for every one in the three
teams. Trevor and Clowes met Mr Seymour as they were returning. Mr
Seymour was the football master at Wrykyn.
"I see you've given Barry his second, Trevor."
"Yes, sir."
"I think you're wise to play him for the first. He knows the game,
which is the great thing, and he will improve with practice," said Mr
Seymour, thus corroborating Milton's words of the previous Saturday.
"I'm glad Seymour thinks Barry good," said Trevor, as they walked on.
"I shall go on playing him now."
"Found out who wrote that letter yet?"
Trevor laughed.
"Not yet," he said.
"Probably Rand-Brown," suggested Clowes. "He's the man who would gain
most by Barry's not playing. I hear he had a row with Mill just before
his study was ragged."
"Everybody in Seymour's has had rows with Mill some time or other,"
said Trevor.
Clowes stopped at the door of the junior day-room to find his fag.
Trevor went on upstairs. In the passage he met Ruthven.
Ruthven seemed excited.
"I say. Trevor," he exclaimed, "have you seen your study?"
"Why, what's the matter with it?"
"You'd better go and look."
Content of CHAPTER VI - TREVOR REMAINS FIRM [P G Wodehouse's novel: The Gold Bat]
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