s
consented to be permanent lead to Biffen's awful crowd on the Acres. He
died a thousand deaths after each (usual) annihilation. Worcester and
Acton had nothing in common, and, except that they were in the same house
and form, they would not probably have come to nodding terms. Worcester,
of course, looked up to the magnificent "footer" player as the average
player looks up to the superlative. After the first game of the season,
when Acton had turned out in all his glory, Dick had thereupon offered to
resign his captaincy, even pressing, with perhaps suspicious eagerness,
Acton's acceptance of that barren honour. But Acton did not bite. Captains
were supposed to turn out pretty well every day with their strings, and
Acton was not the sort of fellow to have his hands tied in any way. So he
had gently declined.

"No, old man. Wouldn't dream of ousting you. You'll get a good team out of
Biffen's yet. Plenty of raw material."

"That's just it," said Worcester, naively; "it is so jolly raw."

"Well, cook it, old man."

"It only makes hash," said Worcester, with a forlorn smile at his own
joke.

But now Acton thought that the captaincy of Biffen's might dovetail into
his schemes for the upsetting of Bourne, and therefore Dick's proposal was
to be reconsidered. Thus it was that Worcester got a note from Acton
asking him to breakfast.

Worcester came, and his eyes visibly brightened when he spotted Acton's
table, for there was more than a little style about Acton's catering, and
Worcester had a weakness for the square meal. Acton's fag, Grim, was busy
with the kettle, and there was as reinforcement in Dick's special honour,
young Poulett, St. Amory's champion egg-poacher, sustaining his big
reputation in a large saucepan. Worcester sank into his chair with a sigh
of satisfaction at sight of little Poulett; he was to be in clover,
evidently.

"That's right, Worcester. That _is_ the easiest chair. Got that last
egg on the toast, Poulett? You're a treasure, and so I'll write your
mamma. Tea or coffee, Dick? Coffee for Worcester, Grim, tea for me. Pass
that cream to Worcester, and you've forgotten the knife for the pie.
You're a credit to Sharpe's, Poulett; but remember that you've been
poaching for Biffen's footer captain. That's something, anyhow. Don't
grin, Poulett; it's bad form. Going? To Bourne's, eh? I can recommend you,
though it would be no recommendation to him. You can cut, too, Grim, and
clear at 9.30. See th