een captain of the
House; no one had blamed him that the House had failed to win their
matches; no one can make bricks without straw; what did matter was that
he had always stood up for the House's rights, he had never given way to
"the Bull," he had been strong. This last term he had been head of the
House in all but name; he had won the batting cup; and he had finished
by playing a big part in the biggest triumph that the House had achieved
for several years. In all outward aspects he had been a great success.

But Gordon had had enough of outward aspects. He wanted to get to the
root of things, to get on terms of equality with life; he was tired of
seeing everything through flickering glass. What had he actually done?

And when he began to sum up his achievements, he was forced to own that
most of them were athletic triumphs, and athletics meant little to him.
He had long ceased to worship them. Because a man could make a big score
in a House match, it did not mean that he was in any way fit for the
battle of life; and what else had he done? He had carried on guerrilla
warfare with "the Bull." It had never come to a real head; so little
does. Most things are left unaccomplished in the end; and what had he
gained by this contest, and what had been the use of it? "The Bull" was
one of the few really fine masters in the school. He was a man, and
towered above the puny pettiness of Rogers; he was the "noblest Roman of
them all," yet Gordon had spent a whole year fighting against a man whom
he at heart admired. It was, of course, the inevitable clash of two
egotisms; but that did not alter the facts. He had been wasting himself
fighting against a fine man, when there were so many rotten traditions
and useless customs that ought to be attacked; but he had let them
alone. The only abuse he had attacked was the worship of sport, and he
began to wonder whether it had been worth it. Might it not have been
better to have let the school go on believing in its gods a little
longer? He had broken down a false god, but had he given the School
anything to worship in its stead? Better a false god than no god at all.

Rudd had been right. He had smashed through a garden of dandelions. He
had rooted up flowers and weeds indiscriminately. He had done nothing
wonderful; and he had left desolation behind him. Nothing would grow for
some time in the plot he had ruined. And yet he was "a great success,"
the world said.

"Only the superfi