“I’ll tell you what you ought to do. I’ve been reading a jolly good book called ‘The Boys of Dormitory Two,’ and the hero’s an awfully nice boy named Lionel Tremayne, and his friend Jack Langdale saves his life when a beast of a boatman who’s really employed by Lionel’s cousin who wants the money that Lionel’s going to have when he grows up stuns him and leaves him on the beach to drown. Well, Lionel is going to play for the school against Loamshire, and it’s _the_ match of the season, but he goes to the headmaster and says he wants Jack to play instead of him. Why don’t you do that? “M. “P.P.S.--This has been a frightful fag to write.” For the life of him Mike could not help giggling as he pictured what Bob’s expression must have been when his brother read this document. But the humorous side of the thing did not appeal to him for long. What should he say to Bob? What would Bob say to him? Dash it all, it made him look such an awful _ass_! Anyhow, Bob couldn’t do much. In fact he didn’t see that he could do anything. The team was filled up, and Burgess was not likely to alter it. Besides, why should he alter it? Probably he would have given Bob his colours anyhow. Still, it was beastly awkward. Marjory meant well, but she had put her foot right in it. Girls oughtn’t to meddle with these things. No girl ought to be taught to write till she came of age. And Uncle John had behaved in many respects like the Complete Rotter. If he was going to let out things like that, he might at least have whispered them, or looked behind the curtains to see that the place wasn’t chock-full of female kids. Confound Uncle John! Throughout the dinner-hour Mike kept out of Bob’s way. But in a small community like a school it is impossible to avoid a man for ever. They met at the nets. “Well?” said Bob. “How do you mean?” said Mike. “Did you read it?” “Yes.” “Well, is it all rot, or did you--you know what I mean--sham a crocked wrist?” “Yes,” said Mike, “I did.” Bob stared gloomily at his toes. “I mean,” he said at last, apparently putting the finishing-touch to some train of thought, “I know I ought to be grateful, and all that. I suppose I am. I mean it was jolly good of you--Dash it all,” he broke off hotly, as if the putting his position into words had suddenly showed him how inglorious it was, “what did you want to do it _for_? What was the idea? What right have you got to go about playing Providence over me? Dash it all, it’s like giving a fellow money without consulting him.” “I didn’t think you’d ever know. You wouldn’t have if only that ass Uncle John hadn’t let it out.” “How did he get to know? Why did you tell him?” “He got it out of me. I couldn’t choke him off. He came down when you were away at Geddington, and would insist on having a look at my arm, and naturally he spotted right away there was nothing the matter with it. So it came out; that’s how it was.”