Corker's throne, but they were a miserable minority.

"Let Corker have a finger in our own private affairs!" said Dick, with
intense disgust. "What next, gentlemen? We won't be able to blow our own
noses without his permission. Keep the masters out of this, whatever we
do. Can't we see the thing through ourselves? I vote we try, anyhow."

Some were inclined to blame Dick for accepting the cap; but pretty
generally it was agreed that, if Acton was not to have it, Dick was the
next best man, but at what a distance! The honour of having two men in the
eleven was no _solatium_ for the wounded pride of Biffen's, when they
considered their great injury. The reason, though, was, naturally, what
puzzled them--and, for the matter of that, the whole school. Did Bourne
expect his team to play footer as though it were a game of croquet? Were
drawing-room manners to be introduced on to the Acres' clay? Were the
famous eleven of St. Amory's to amble about, like a swarm of
bread-and-butter misses? One wit suggested wadded coats and respirators.
Acton rough, indeed! Phil Bourne must be an embodiment of his grandmother,
then! Most of the fags in Biffen's house sent Phil elaborate instructions
for "a nice drawing-room game to take the place of 'Socker'
football--nasty, rough 'Socker' footer--for one-and-six, and guaranteed
to do no injury to the most delicate constitution. A child can play it!"
These letters were anonymous, of course; but Biffen's house-paper was
freely used. "Anyhow," said Phil, with a gentle smile to me, "the spelling
is obviously Biffen's."

Acton went on his own way, serenely indifferent to his house, which would
have made a god of him on the smallest provocation. He cheerfully ignored
Bourne, and he had the art of never seeing Phil when they met, in school
or out, though, of course, Phil minded this not at all. When the
Carthusians were played, Acton spent the afternoon reading with Raven,
whose exam, was now very near; and, whilst the two were grinding out all
the absurd details of Horace and his patron, "and the poet's little farm,
and the other rot which gains Perry Exhibitions," the shouts and cheers
of the school down at the Acres came floating up the hill to their room.

The school lost their match with the Carthusians--the match which a good
St. Amorian would rather win than any two others--and it was plain that
Dick, though a useful fellow, could not bottle up the forwards in the
Actonian style. This defea