The other hesitated. “No. At the moment I can’t think of any particular fellow who’s specially likely to give in, and of course it’s no use just one or two giving in, anyway. But you see what I mean. At this very moment we’re losing. We asked for this fight and it’s going against us. We’re getting more than we’re giving. And that weighs on the chaps’ minds. They’re just crazy to hit back. It was different before. House friendlies were a sort of safety valve. Fellows who were longing for a school match could at least put their hearts and souls into a house game. You saw how they turned out in the hope of seeing Seymour’s play Morley’s. It was pretty nearly pathetic. And in a sense I feel that mine is the responsibility. It was because Betteridge and I wouldn’t play under that yahoo’s captaincy that house Rugger was stopped. And I can tell you I’m precious sorry about it all. We’re being absolutely sat on, and the chaps can see it. Isn’t there any way at all of getting a bit of our own back? Isn’t there anything we can do?” Rouse made no answer. He had been listening to Saville attentively, and once he had nodded his head in total agreement. Otherwise he had made no move. Now he turned to the two young men who were sitting with him, one upon the table and one upon the window-sill, and looked at them inquiringly. Saville was at a loss. He stared first at Smythe and then at Terence Nicholson, and finally at Rouse. On the face of each he perceived the same significant expression. “You may think I’m mad,” said he resentfully, “but it’s perfectly true all the same.” “I know it is, old horse,” said Rouse. “Then, dash it all,” repeated Saville, “isn’t there anything we can do?” Still Rouse made no move. He just looked at Saville steadily. “There is,” said he. “And Smythe has done it. Take a seat!” “Where?” demanded Saville, looking mournfully round the study. “Sit on that box. There’s something we want you to know. The safety valve of which you spoke has, as you say, gone bust. Let there be no panic. Smythe has another up his sleeve. As soon as there are sufficient pennies in the hat he will produce it.” He paused. “We told Smythe to scratch our fixtures for the season. He obeyed except in one respect. He did not scratch the Rainhurst match.” The effect of these words was remarkable. Saville rose from his box in the stiff, unnatural manner of a man under the influence of hypnotism. Then he lifted his hand and pointed at Smythe with an extended forefinger: “You didn’t?” “No.” Saville sat back, and for a little while he leaned against the wall with a distant smile, seeming to be recalling some memory of the long ago. At last his lips parted and he spoke in a half whisper: “The Rainhurst match!” He leaned forward. The other three were looking at him in appreciation.