staff, who made everything quite clear to
Rogers that afternoon. Finally, the Chief learnt of the affair.
Betteridge got a lecture on military discipline and on prefectorial
dignity. But a good many of the younger masters thoroughly enjoyed the
rag, and the story of the coloured shoe-laces is still recounted in
common room, when Rogers has made himself unusually tedious about his
own virtues and his cleverness in scoring off his enemies.

CHAPTER III: ROMANCE

The Tonford match was a sad travesty of Fernhurst football. The school
lost by over forty points. Gordon got his "Seconds," in company with
nearly the entire Fifteen. He was not very elated. These things had lost
their value. Still, it was as well to have them.

The school authorities then came to the conclusion that the expense of
travelling was too great during war-time, and the Dulbridge match was
scratched.

The Fifteen continued to play uppers. There was nothing to train for.
There was no chance of there being any matches, but the same routine
went on.

It was in this period of depression that Gordon began to take an
interest in Morcombe.

Morcombe was considerably Gordon's junior; not so much in years--there
was, as a matter of fact, only a few months between them--as in
position. Morcombe had come late; had made little mark at either footer
or cricket; and had drifted into the Army class, where, owing to private
tuition and extra hours, he found himself somewhat "out of it" in the
House. In hall he used to sit at the top of the day-room table.

Gordon very rarely took hall. He generally managed to find someone to
assume the duty for him; but one day everyone seemed engaged on some
pursuit or other, so with every anticipation of a dull evening he went
down to hall. He began to read Shelley but the surroundings were
unpropitious. All about him sat huddled fragments of humanity scratching
half-baked ideas with crossed nibs into dog-eared notebooks. There was a
general air of unrest. Gordon tried _Sinister Street_; some of the
episodes in Lepard Street were more in harmony with his feelings, but
there was in Compton Mackenzie's prose a Keats-like perfection of phrase
which seemed almost as much out of place as _Adonais_. As a last resort
he began to talk to the two boys nearest him, Bray and Morcombe. Bray
always amused him; his whole outlook on life was so exactly like his
footer. But for once Gordon found him dull. Morcombe was so much more
i