“Then what are you doing with the stick?” pursued the Bishop relentlessly.
“Young Wilson cheeked Perkins,” said Monk.
Murmurs of approval from the senior day-room. Perkins was one of the ornaments referred to above.
“How?” asked Gethryn.
Wilson dashed into the conversation again.
“Perkins told me to go and get him some grub from the shop. I was doing some work, so I couldn’t. Besides, I’m not his fag. If Perkins wants to go for me, why doesn’t he do it himself, and not get about a hundred fellows to help him?”
“Exactly,” said the Bishop. “A very sensible suggestion. Perkins, fall upon Wilson and slay him. I’ll see fair play. Go ahead.”
“Er—no,” said Perkins uneasily. He was a small, weedy-looking youth, not built for fighting except by proxy, and he remembered the episode of Wilson and Skinner.
“Then the thing’s finished,” said Gethryn. “Wilson walks over. We needn’t detain you, Wilson.”
Wilson departed with all the honours of war, and the Bishop turned to Monk.
“Now perhaps you’ll tell me,” he said, “what the deuce you and Danvers are doing here?”
“Well, hang it all, old chap—”
The Bishop begged that Monk would not call him “old chap.”
“I’ll call you ‘sir,’ if you like,” said Monk.
A gleam of hope appeared in the Bishop’s eye. Monk was going to give him the opportunity he had long sighed for. In cold blood he could attack no one, not even Monk, but if he was going to be rude, that altered matters.
“What business have you in the day-room?” he said. “You’ve got studies of your own.”
“If it comes to that,” said Monk, “so have you. We’ve got as much business here as you. What the deuce are you doing here?”
Taken by itself, taken neat, as it were, this repartee might have been insufficient to act as a casus belli, but by a merciful dispensation of Providence the senior day-room elected to laugh at the remark, and to laugh loudly. Monk also laughed. Not, however, for long. The next moment the Bishop had darted in, knocked his feet from under him, and dragged him to the door. Captain Kettle himself could not have done it more neatly.
“Now,” said the Bishop, “we can discuss the point.”
Monk got up, looking greener than usual, and began to dust his clothes.
“Don’t talk rot,” he said, “I can’t fight a prefect.”
This, of course, the Bishop had known all along. What he had intended to do if Monk had kept up his end he had not decided when he embarked upon the engagement. The head of a House cannot fight by-battles with his inferiors without the loss of a good deal of his painfully acquired dignity. But Gethryn knew Monk, and he had felt justified in risking it. He improved the shining hour with an excursus on the subject of bullying, dispensed a few general threats, and left the room.
Monk had—perhaps not unnaturally—not forgotten the incident, and now that public opinion ran strongly against Gethryn on account of his M.C.C. match manoeuvres, he acted. A mass meeting of the Mob was called in his study, and it was unanimously voted that field-outs in the morning were undesirable, and that it would be judicious if the team were to strike. Now, as the Mob included in their numbers eight of the House Eleven, their opinions on the subject carried weight.
“Look here,” said Waterford, struck with a brilliant idea, “I tell you what we’ll do. Let’s sign a round-robin refusing to play in the House matches unless Gethryn resigns the captaincy and the field-outs stop.”
“We may as well sign in alphabetical order,” said Monk prudently. “It’ll make it safer.”
The idea took the Mob’s fancy. The round-robin was drawn up and signed.
“Now, if we could only get Reece,” suggested Danvers. “It’s no good asking Marriott, but Reece might sign.”
“Let’s have a shot at any rate,” said Monk.
And a deputation, consisting of Danvers, Waterford, and Monk, duly waited upon Reece in his study, and broached the project to him.
XIII
Leicester’s House Team Goes Into a Second Edition
Reece was working when the deputation entered. He looked up enquiringly, but if he was pleased to see his visitors he managed to conceal the fact.
“Oh, I say, Reece,” began Monk, who had constituted himself spokesman to the expedition, “are you busy?”
“Yes,” said Reece simply, going on with his writing.
This might have discouraged some people, but Nature had equipped Monk with a tough skin, which hints never pierced. He dropped into a chair, crossed his legs, and coughed. Danvers and Waterford leaned in picturesque attitudes against the door and mantelpiece. There was a silence for a minute, during which Reece continued to write unmoved.
“Take a seat, Monk,” he said at last, without looking up.
“Oh, er, thanks, I have,” said Monk. “I say, Reece, we wanted to speak to you.”
“Go ahead then,” said Reece. “I can listen and write at the same time. I’m doing this prose against time.”
“It’s about Gethryn.”
“What’s Gethryn been doing?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Nothing special. It’s about his being captain of the House team. The chaps seem to think he ought to resign.”
“Which chaps?” enquired Reece, laying down his pen and turning round in his chair.
“The rest of the team, you know.”
“Why don’t they think he ought to be captain? The head of the House is always captain of the House team unless he’s too bad to be in it at all. Don’t the chaps think Gethryn’s good at cricket?”
“Oh, he’s good enough,” said Monk. “It’s more about this M.C.C. match business, you know. His cutting off like that in the middle of the match. The chaps think the House ought to take some notice of it. Express its disapproval, and that sort of thing.”
“And what do the chaps think of doing about it?”
Monk inserted a hand in his breast-pocket, and drew forth the round-robin. He straightened it out, and passed it over to Reece.
“We’ve drawn up this notice,” he said, “and we came to see if you’d sign it. Nearly all the
