There was no buzz. No one sprang to his feet. The silence was deadly. It was as clear as day that it was going to take them a few minutes to believe it. Toby gave them those few minutes, and when he judged that it had thoroughly got home on them he spoke again. “The Headmaster wished me to tell you,” he said, “that the captain of football must be a senior in the Sixth Form.” He did not say more. There was really no need to tell them that he must also be a boy who wore the cloak of dignity—that one proviso limited their choice sufficiently. “His particular wish is that, if practicable, the captain of football should be the captain of the school,” said Toby. Then he made a gesture of finality and sat down. There came now a slight shuffling of feet. The counsellors were turning one to the other; there was hoarse whispering, occasional sharp sounds of absolute amazement. At last the captain of the school rose in his seat. He did not play football at all. He made up verses that didn’t rhyme and secured good prizes for them. Nevertheless he was a good fellow, and it was clear that the news that he might be expected to lead the Fifteen on to the field in cap and gown had had a pronounced effect upon him. He was really quite shaken up. “But does the Headmaster know the practice at this school, sir?” “Oh yes,” said Toby. “He knows what it always has been ever since I can remember. I’ve done all that a man could do to persuade him to respect our unwritten laws. The Headmaster, however, is a man of very strong views. He is determined on a new method.” “Well, I’m blowed,” said the captain of the school, and sat down with a jerk. Next moment Rouse had half risen from his chair, and, in the awkward manner of a boy whose lifelong nightmare has always been that he might one day be called upon for a speech, turned towards the assembly. “It’s quite true,” said he a little huskily. “I’ve been rather prominent in doing the very things the new Head hates most ever since he came, it seems. Mr Nicholson’s done his best to keep me—but it’s no use. I’m terribly sorry. It seems a sort of disgrace to the school. They’ll get to hear about this at other places—Rainhurst and Wilton—and they’ll guess I’m a general rotter and wonder why I haven’t been sacked. I——” He stopped and seemed to be searching for the right words. Few of those present had ever heard Rouse speak in such grave tones before, and it did more than anything else to bring home the truth to them. There was a sympathetic silence. “There’s nothing else to be said. I resign, of course. Pointon doesn’t play football. It’s useless to propose him. Perhaps, though, once the Head gets rid of me he may listen to reason more. I think that if you elect a fellow who is at least in the Sixth you might get his approval. So I propose Smythe.”