It so happened that Worcester was captain of Biffen's house, and also of
Biffen's "footer" team. My own opinion was that poor old Worcester would
have given a lot to be out of such a house as Biffen's, and I know he
utterly despised himself for having in a moment of inexplicable weakness
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.
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