for this," said Dick, earnestly.

"Sorry, Worcester, I can't."

"Good night, then."

"Good night."

The rage and consternation of the Biffenites when they found that Bourne
was immovable in his decision can be imagined. Some were inclined to take
the matter up to Corker's throne, but they were a miserable minority.

"Let Corker have a finger in our own private affairs!" said Dick, with
intense disgust. "What next, gentlemen? We won't be able to blow our own
noses without his permission. Keep the masters out of this, whatever we
do. Can't we see the thing through ourselves? I vote we try, anyhow."

Some were inclined to blame Dick for accepting the cap; but pretty
generally it was agreed that, if Acton was not to have it, Dick was the
next best man, but at what a distance! The honour of having two men in the
eleven was no _solatium_ for the wounded pride of Biffen's, when they
considered their great injury. The reason, though, was, naturally, what
puzzled them--and, for the matter of that, the whole school. Did Bourne
expect his team to play footer as though it were a game of croquet? Were
drawing-room manners to be introduced on to the Acres' clay? Were the
famous eleven of St. Amory's to amble about, like a swarm of
bread-and-butter misses? One wit suggested wadded coats and respirators.
Acton rough, indeed! Phil Bourne must be an embodiment of his grandmother,
then! Most of the fags in Biffen's house sent Phil elaborate instructions
for "a nice drawing-room game to take the place of 'Socker'