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Pillingshot had not finished, but Scott so evidently believed that he had, that it would have been unkind to have mentioned the fact. He followed the smiter to the nets.

If Pillingshot had passed the earlier part of the afternoon in a sedentary fashion, he made up for it now. Scott was in rare form, and Pillingshot noticed with no small interest that, while he invariably hit Mr Yorke’s deliveries a quarter of a mile or so, he never hit two balls in succession in the same direction. As soon as the panting fieldsman had sprinted to one side of the football ground and returned the ball, there was a beautiful, musical plonk, and the ball soared to the very opposite quarter of the field. It was a fine exhibition of hitting, but Pillingshot felt that he would have enjoyed it more if he could have watched it from a deck-chair.

‘You’re coming on as a deep field, young Pillingshot,’ said Scott, as he took off his pads. ‘You’ve got a knack of stopping them with your stomach, which the best first-class fields never have. You ought to give lessons at it. Now we’ll go and have some tea.’

If Pillingshot had had a more intimate acquaintance with the classics, he would have observed at this point, ‘Timeo Danaos‘, and made a last dash for liberty in the direction of the shop. But he was deceived by the specious nature of Scott’s remark. Visions rose before his eyes of sitting back in one of Scott’s armchairs, watching a fag toasting muffins, which he would eventually dispatch with languid enjoyment. So he followed Scott to his study. The classical parallel to his situation is the well-known case of the oysters. They, too, were eager for the treat.

They had reached the study, and Pillingshot was about to fling himself, with a sigh of relief, into the most comfortable chair, when Scott unmasked his batteries.

‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, with a coolness which to Pillingshot appeared simply brazen, ‘I’m afraid my fag won’t be here today. The young crock’s gone and got mumps, or the plague, or something. So would you mind just lighting that stove? It’ll be rather warm, but that won’t matter. There are some muffins in the cupboard. You might weigh in with them. You’ll find the toasting-fork on the wall somewhere. It’s hanging up. Got it? Good man. Fire away.’

And Scott collected five cushions, two chairs, and a tin of mixed biscuits, and made himself comfortable. Pillingshot, with feelings too deep for words (in the then limited state of his vocabulary), did as he was requested. There was something remarkable about the way Scott could always get people to do things for him. He seemed to take everything for granted. If he had had occasion to hire an assassin to make away with the German Emperor, he would have said, ‘Oh, I say, you might run over to Germany and kill the Kaiser, will you, there’s a good chap? Don’t be long.’ And he would have taken a seat and waited, without the least doubt in his mind that the thing would be carried through as desired.

Pillingshot had just finished toasting the muffins, when the door opened, and Venables, of Merevale’s, came in.

‘I thought I heard you say something about tea this afternoon, Scott,’ said Venables. ‘I just looked in on the chance. Good Heavens, man! Fancy muffins at this time of year! Do you happen to know what the thermometer is in the shade?’

‘Take a seat,’ said Scott. ‘I attribute my entire success in life to the fact that I never find it too hot to eat muffins. Do you know Pillingshot? One of the hottest fieldsmen in the School. At least, he was just now. He’s probably cooled off since then. Venables–Pillingshot, and vice versa. Buck up with the tea, Pillingshot. What, ready? Good man. Now we might almost begin.’

‘Beastly thing that accident of young Brown’s, wasn’t it?’ said Scott. ‘Chaps oughtn’t to go slamming about like that with the field full of fellows. I suppose he won’t be right by next Saturday?’

‘Not a chance. Why? Oh, yes, I forgot. He was to have scored for the team at Windybury, wasn’t he?’

‘Who are you going to get now?’

Venables was captain of the St Austin’s team. The match next Saturday was at Windybury, on the latter’s ground.

‘I haven’t settled,’ said Venables. ‘But it’s easy to get somebody. Scoring isn’t one of those things which only one chap in a hundred understands.’

Then Pillingshot had an idea–a great, luminous idea.

‘May I score?’ he asked, and waited trembling with apprehension lest the request be refused.

‘All right,’ said Venables, ‘I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t. We have to catch the 8.14 at the station. Don’t you go missing it or anything.’

‘Rather not,’ said Pillingshot. ‘Not much.’

* * * * *

On Saturday morning, at exactly 9.15, Mr Mellish distributed the Livy papers. When he arrived at Pillingshot’s seat and found it empty, an expression passed over his face like unto that of the baffled villain in transpontine melodrama.

‘Where is Pillingshot?’ he demanded tragically. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s gone with the team to Windybury, sir,’ said Parker, struggling to conceal a large size in grins. ‘He’s going to score.’

‘No,’ said Mr Mellish sadly to himself, ‘he has scored.’