"You mustn't talk in that chatty way, Clayton," interrupted Linton. "'Prisoner at the bar's' the right expression to use. Why don't you let somebody else have a look in? You're the rottenest president of a court-martial I ever saw." "Don't rag, Linton," said Clayton, with an austere frown. "This is serious." "Glad you told me," said Linton. "Go on." "Can't you sit down, Linton!" said Stanning. "I was only waiting for leave. Thanks. You were saying something, Clayton. It sounded pretty average rot, but you'd better unburden your soul." The president resumed. "We want to know if you've anything to say--" "You don't give him a chance," said Linton. "You bag the conversation so." "--about disgracing the house." "By getting the Gotford, you know, Sheen," explained Linton. "Clayton thinks that work's a bad habit, and ought to be discouraged." Clayton glared, and looked at Stanning. He was not equal to the task of tackling Linton himself. Stanning interposed. "Don't rot, Linton. We haven't much time as it is." "Sorry," said Linton. "You've let the house down awfully," said Clayton. "Yes?" said Sheen. Linton took the paper out of his pocket, and smoothed it out. "Seen the _Sporter_?" he asked casually. His neighbour grabbed at it. "I thought it hadn't come," he said. "Good account of Aldershot," said Linton. He leaned back in his chair as two or three of the senior day-room collected round the _Sportsman_. "Hullo! We won the gym.!" "Rot! Let's have a look!" This tremendous announcement quite eclipsed the court-martial as an object of popular interest. The senior day-room surged round the holder of the paper. "Give us a chance," he protested. "We can't have. Where is it? Biddle and Smith are simply hopeless. How the dickens can they have got the shield?" "What a goat you are!" said a voice reproachfully to the possessor of the paper. "Look at this. It says Cheltenham got it. And here we are--seventeenth. Fat lot of shield we've won." "Then what the deuce does this mean? 'Honours for St Paul's, Harrow, and Wrykyn'." "Perhaps it refers to the boxing," suggested Linton. "But we didn't send any one up. Look here. Harrow won the Heavies. St Paul's got the Middles. _Hullo!_" "Great Scott!" said the senior day-room. There was a blank silence. Linton whistled softly to himself. The gaze of the senior day-room was concentrated on that ridge of purple beneath Sheen's left eye. Clayton was the first to speak. For some time he had been waiting for sufficient silence to enable him to proceed with his presidential duties. He addressed himself to Sheen. "Look here, Sheen," he said, "we want to know what you've got to say for yourself. You go disgracing the house--" The stunned senior day-room were roused to speech. "Oh, chuck it, Clayton." "Don't be a fool, Clayton." "Silly idiot!" Clayton looked round in pained surprise at this sudden withdrawal of popular support.