“We were only wrestling, sir,” said Jeremy, panting. “Excellent thing for your clothes,” said Thompson. “What do you suppose the gym is for?” “It was only a minute, sir,” said Riley. “Cole wanted to see whether he was all right.” “And he is?” asked Thompson. Jeremy perceived that Olympus was smiling. “I’m a little out of breath,” he said, “but of course it’s just after dinner. The ground isn’t muddy yet.” “You’d better wait until you’re in football things,” Thompson said, “then you can roll about as much as you like.” He walked away, rolling a little as he went. The two boys looked after him and suddenly adored him. Their feelings about him were always undergoing lightning changes. At one moment they adored, at another they detested, at another they admired from a distance, and at another they wondered. “Wasn’t that decent of him?” said Riley. “That’s because he’s just had his dinner,” said Jeremy. “It’s his glass of beer. My uncle’s just the same.” “Oh, you and your uncle,” said Riley. “I’ll race you to the end of the playground.” They ran like hares, and Jeremy led by a second. III He was in the changing-room when suddenly the atmosphere of the coming game was close about him. He had that strange mixture of fear and excitement, terror and pleasure. He suddenly felt cold in his jersey and shorts, and shivered a little. At the other side of the room was Turnbull, one of the three-quarters playing for the “Rest,” a large, bony boy with projecting knees. The mere thought that he would have in all probability to collar Turnbull and bring him to the ground made Jeremy feel sick. His confidence suddenly deserted him. He knew that he was going to play badly. Worse than ever in his life before. He wished that he could suddenly develop scarlet fever and be carried off to the infirmary. He even searched his bare legs for spots. He had rather a headache and his throat felt queer, and he was not at all sure that he could see straight. One of those silly fools who always comes and talks to you at the wrong moment sniggered and said he felt awfully fit. It was all right for _him_; he was one of the forwards playing for the “Rest.” It would be perfectly easy for him to hide himself in the scrum and pretend to be pushing when he was not. No one ever noticed. But the isolation of a half was an awful thing to consider, and that desperate moment when you had to go down to the ball, with at least five hundred enormous boots all coming at your head at the same moment, was horrible to contemplate. Millett, the scrum half playing for the “Rest,” and Jeremy’s bitterest rival for the place in the fifteen, was looking supremely self-confident and assured. Certainly he was not as good as Jeremy on Jeremy’s day, but was this Jeremy’s day? No, most certainly it was not.