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‘That you, Barrett? What’s up with you?’

‘Collar-bone. Dislocated it or something. Reade’s over in that corner. He has bust his ankle. Oh, yes, we’ve been having a nice, cheery afternoon,’ concluded Barrett bitterly.

‘Great Scott! How did it happen?’

‘Payne.’

‘Where? In your collar-bone?’

‘Yes. That wasn’t what I meant, though. What I was explaining was that Payne got hold of me in the middle of the field, and threw me into touch. After which he fell on me. That was enough for my simple needs. I’m not grasping.’

‘How about Reade?’

‘The entire Second scrum collapsed on top of Reade. When we dug him out his ankle was crocked. Mainspring gone, probably. Then they gathered up the pieces and took them gently away. I don’t know how it all ended.’

Just then Walkinshaw burst into the room. He had a large bruise over one eye, his arm was in a sling, and he limped. But he was in excellent spirits.

‘I knew I was right, by Jove,’ he observed to Grey. ‘I knew he could buck up if he liked.’

‘I know it now,’ said Barrett.

‘Who’s this you’re talking about?’ said Grey.

‘Payne. I’ve never seen anything like the game he played today. He was everywhere. And, by Jove, his tackling!’

‘Don’t,’ said Barrett, wearily.

‘It’s the best match I ever played in,’ said Walkinshaw, bubbling over with enthusiasm. ‘Do you know, the Second had all the best of the game.’

‘What was the score?’

‘Draw. One try all.’

‘And now I suppose you’re satisfied?’ enquired Barrett. The great scheme for the regeneration of Payne had been confided to him by its proud patentee.

‘Almost,’ said Walkinshaw. ‘We’ll continue the treatment for one more game, and then we’ll have him simply fizzing for the Windybury match. That’s next Saturday. By the way, I’m afraid you’ll hardly be fit again in time for that, Barrett, will you?’

‘I may possibly,’ said Barrett, coldly, ‘be getting about again in time for the Windybury match of the year after next. This year I’m afraid I shall not have the pleasure. And I should strongly advise you, if you don’t want to have to put a team of cripples into the field, to discontinue the treatment, as you call it.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Walkinshaw.

On the following Wednesday evening, at five o’clock, something was carried in on a stretcher, and deposited in the bed which lay between Grey and Barrett. Close scrutiny revealed the fact that it was what had once been Charles Augustus Walkinshaw. He was slightly broken up.

‘Payne?’ enquired Grey in chilly tones.

Walkinshaw admitted the impeachment.

Grey took a pencil and a piece of paper from the table at his side. ‘If you want to know what I’m doing,’ he said, ‘I’m writing out the team for the Windybury match, and I’m going to make Payne captain, as the senior Second Fifteen man. And if we win I’m jolly well going to give him his cap after the match. If we don’t win, it’ll be the fault of a raving lunatic of the name of Walkinshaw, with his beastly Colney Hatch schemes for reforming slack forwards. You utter rotter!’

Fortunately for the future peace of mind of C. A. Walkinshaw, the latter contingency did not occur. The School, in spite of its absentees, contrived to pull the match off by a try to nil. Payne, as was only right and proper, scored the try, making his way through the ranks of the visiting team with the quiet persistence of a steam-roller. After the game he came to tea, by request, at the infirmary, and was straightaway invested by Grey with his First Fifteen colours. On his arrival he surveyed the invalids with interest.

‘Rough game, footer,’ he observed at length.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Barrett politely. ‘Leeches,’ he added dreamily. ‘Leeches and hot fomentations. Boiling fomentations. Will somebody kindly murder Walkinshaw!’

‘Why?’ asked Payne, innocently.