“I see what’s in the wind. A little petty jealousy. As a matter of fact, I believe I’m the senior man in the First Fifteen here, and I saw no particular need to wait for anyone else to go first. All I wanted was to prevent giving the idea that Roe was shoving himself to the front.” “The understanding was,” said Betteridge, “that Roe was going to walk behind. As for you being senior in the First Fifteen, there isn’t any First Fifteen! All we’re concerned with here is the house side, and Saville happens to be the elected captain.” “It doesn’t matter a cuss to me,” snapped Coles, “who walks on first. It isn’t a confounded Court procession, is it? My idea is to get a game of Rugger, and you raving idiots are going the right way to get house Rugger stopped altogether by the Head. You can bet your life that if the Head sees Roe walking on all alone and behind everybody else, when he’s been appointed captain, he’ll have something rather interesting to say about it.” He made a sudden angry gesture. His hot temper was rising swiftly to the surface. “Personally, I’m going out to the field how I like and I’m not going to wait for anyone else to tell me when I’m to go, and if by the time I get to the half-way line you chaps are still crouching down here, I’ll tell Rouse the match is off.” “I think he’ll understand that as soon as he sees you walking arm-in-arm with Roe,” said Saville, speaking for the first time. “And I rather imagine you’ll be chased off the field. It may turn out that these seats will be the best after all for watching that part of the show.” [Illustration: “‘THE MATCH IS SCRATCHED, SIR,’ SAID HE.”] “What the deuce do you mean?” cried Coles, in a sudden scream of wrath. “Do you mean to say I’m trying to curry favour with the Head?” “I mean to say,” said Saville, “that it was your idea that Roe should be allowed to play, and we agreed on the distinct understanding that he wasn’t going to be captain. Now it’s your idea that he should walk in front, and I wonder you don’t want to go and sprinkle roses in front of him as he goes.” “It’s for the sake of the game, you utter ass! What do I care who goes in front! I want my Rugger.” “Then you can jolly well have it,” snapped Betteridge. “And you can play it in your own backyard.” Coles turned towards him, and for one moment he looked as if he could have jumped down and attacked him with his fists. But there came instead a new diversion. Across the steps there swept the shadow of the Head. Then he stood magisterially before them, and finally he singled out Coles. “What is the delay?” said he. “What are you waiting for?” Before Coles could answer Saville had stepped forward. “The match is scratched, sir,” said he. “I am just going out to apologise to Rouse for keeping them waiting so long.”