“Perhaps,” one young man said hopefully, “perhaps Rouse’ll scrag him.” There came at last a significant stir along the crowded ropes. The reason was apparent. Morley’s were coming out. From the stone steps beside the cloisters from which the chosen of Seymour’s would presently appear Coles had stood watching, and now he turned suddenly to those below and nodded to them. “Morley’s have gone out,” said he. “Are we all here?” There was no immediate answer. He glanced at the young man beside him. “Come along, Roe. We’ll move off.” The words were scarcely above a whisper, but Roe turned obediently and proceeded into the open beside him, seemingly proud and happily at his ease. Out on to the gravel path he went, and then quite suddenly he was struck by a curious silence behind him, and he turned and cautiously looked over his shoulder. Then he understood. The team were huddled in a group at the bottom of the steps, staring after him dully, very still and very haughty, and not one fellow amongst them all had so much as moved his foot. He reached out nervously and plucked at Coles’ arm. “I say ... stop ... I say ... they aren’t coming! They haven’t moved!” The peculiar stupidity of his position struck him then with force. “We’re _all alone_.” Coles stopped and spun on his heel. Next moment he had darted back down the steps, but Roe stood like a derelict pig where he had been left, frozen with astonishment, looking first towards the field where Morley’s were waiting and then towards the team who wouldn’t come. From every possible direction boys were staring at him rudely. He knew the horrifying shame of some scene-shifter slow in removing himself from the stage and discovered in a ridiculous attitude at the lifting of the curtain. Coles had darted into that flock like an angry shepherd, but they stubbornly refused to scatter. “What is it? Why don’t you come? Morley’s are waiting.” He made an impatient gesture. “What’s the trouble?” Betteridge replied. He was standing with folded arms, Napoleonically, outside the changing-room, and he spoke emphatically: “It’s only a matter of form. But isn’t it usual for the captain of the side to go out first?” “Great Scott, what does it matter? Isn’t the game the thing that counts most? As a matter of fact, you may not know it, but the Head’s outside. He’s been standing over there in the corner for the last ten minutes and he’s waiting to see us come out. The reason Roe went out with me was because if he didn’t the Head would be as wild as anything. He’s only walking with me so as to satisfy the Head. He doesn’t care twopence whether he’s captain of the side or not.” “And what’s the idea of _you_ going in front?” asked Betteridge, and his tone was very cold. “Until to-day the supposition has been that Saville was captain of footer in Seymour’s.” There was a moment’s ominous silence. Coles stared at him fixedly. At last he answered: