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Payne grunted. Bowden realized that matters had not been going well with him. He attempted to soothe him with conversation, choosing what he thought would be a congenial topic.

‘What’s on on Saturday?’ he asked.

‘Scratch game. First v. Second.’

Bowden groaned.

‘I know those First v. Second games,’ he said. ‘They turn the Second out to get butchered for thirty-five minutes each way, to improve the First’s combination. It may be fun for the First, but it’s not nearly so rollicking for us. Look here, Payne, if you find me with the pill at any time, you can let me down easy, you know. You needn’t go bringing off any of your beastly gallery tackles.’

‘I won’t,’ said Payne. ‘To start with, it would be against rules. We happen to be on the same side.’

‘Rot, man; I’m not playing for the First.’ This was the only explanation that occurred to him.

‘I’m playing for the Second.’

‘What! Are you certain?’

‘I’ve seen the list. They’re playing Babington instead of me.’

‘But why? Babington’s no good.’

‘I think they have a sort of idea I’m slacking or something. At any rate, Walkinshaw told me that if I bucked up I might get tried again.’

‘Silly goat,’ said Bowden. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to take his advice, and buck up.’

II

He did. At the beginning of the game the ropes were lined by some thirty spectators, who had come to derive a languid enjoyment from seeing the First pile up a record score. By half-time their numbers had risen to an excited mob of something over three hundred, and the second half of the game was fought out to the accompaniment of a storm of yells and counter yells such as usually only belonged to school-matches. The Second Fifteen, after a poor start, suddenly awoke to the fact that this was not going to be the conventional massacre by any means. The First had scored an unconverted try five minutes after the kick-off, and it was after this that the Second began to get together. The school back bungled the drop out badly, and had to find touch in his own twenty-five, and after that it was anyone’s game. The scrums were a treat to behold. Payne was a monument of strength. Time after time the Second had the ball out to their three-quarters, and just after half-time Bowden slipped through in the corner. The kick failed, and the two teams, with their scores equal now, settled down grimly to fight the thing out to a finish. But though they remained on their opponents’ line for most of the rest of the game, the Second did not add to their score, and the match ended in a draw of three points all.

The first intimation Grey received of this came to him late in the evening. He had been reading a novel which, whatever its other merits may have been, was not interesting, and it had sent him to sleep. He awoke to hear a well-known voice observe with some unction: ‘Ah! M’yes. Leeches and hot fomentations.’ This effectually banished sleep. If there were two things in the world that he loathed, they were leeches and hot fomentations, and the School doctor apparently regarded them as a panacea for every kind of bodily ailment, from a fractured skull to a cold in the head. It was this gentleman who had just spoken, but Grey’s alarm vanished as he perceived that the words had no personal application to himself. The object of the remark was a fellow-sufferer in the next bed but one. Now Grey was certain that when he had fallen asleep there had been nobody in that bed. When, therefore, the medical expert had departed on his fell errand, the quest of leeches and hot fomentations, he sat up and gave tongue.

‘Who’s that in that bed?’ he asked.

‘Hullo, Grey,’ replied a voice. ‘Didn’t know you were awake. I’ve come to keep you company.’