There is splendour in storm and flood and tempest, and no man regrets that now and again in life thunder and lightning spoil some chosen holiday. But those long grey days that come in stretches and blot the calendar for weeks on end with the dreary misery of heartless and unbroken skies are only mean and uninspiring, and they have no single use. They are discontented days and they bring with them discontent. The first thunder-burst of a revolution had come to Harley as a vast excitement, and those who had no real part to play in it had stood at their windows watching the threatening majesty of its power unfold. But days had passed, and with them had departed much of a schoolboy’s first intense delight in bold rebellion, so that when the time of cheering and singing had gone, and only grey days empty and wearisome remained, a sulky discontent slowly wrapped Harley in its mantle. All days were grey days. There had been no school Rugger and each week was devoid of interest. Saturdays were not holidays but hollow days. The only interest that had helped to keep Harleyans awake out of school hours had been house friendlies. Now these had gone from their ken. The Head had hit straight and hard. Directly Coles heard the news he smiled again, for he knew that this blow would provide a first step towards the school’s collapse. For a minute their pride would steady them. Members of the Fifteen who were suffering most would set the example, but by degrees fellows would be found in favour of giving in. The call of Rugger in their blood would be too strong. He and his friends would move quietly amongst these wobblers and encourage them in their notions. In this way a reactionary party would begin to grow, snowball fashion, each newcomer persuading some crony of his own to think with him. Then would come Coles’ chance. Fellows would look round for a leader, some bright spirit who could show them a way out of their dilemma that would be in keeping with their dignity. That bright spark would be forthcoming without delay. Coles would be the man of the hour. He was the best drop-kick in the school. He was an old colour. He would be their philosopher. “Let the Head have his way to this extent,” he would say. “Let Roe be the official captain. It will be too late to print cards with his name on this season, and many outside the school will never know. And I will be secretary. I will guide his hand. I will choose the teams. I will award the colours. We will end the term gloriously. The Head will think he has won, and he will be affable and amenable to reason, but in reality we shall be laughing up our sleeves, for the captain of footer will have to do just what his secretary tells him.”