“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?”
