"And," continued Bourne, "though there is not a fellow even a respectable
second to you at 'footer,' I shall not give you your cap as long as I am
captain of the eleven. That is all I came to say."

Acton said quite calmly (why was he so uncommonly cool, I asked
myself?)--though his face was red and white alternately: "Then listen
carefully to what I say. I particularly wanted to have my footer cap--why,
does not concern any one but myself--and I don't fancy losing it because a
couple of fellows see something that a hundred others couldn't see, for the
sufficient reason that there wasn't anything to see. I shall make no row
about it; and, since you can dole out the caps to your own pet chums, and
no one can stop you--do it! but I think you'll regret it all the same. I'm
not going to moan about it--that isn't my way; but I really think you'll
regret it. That is all; though"--this with a mocking sneer--"why it
requires two of you to come and insult a man in his own room I don't
understand."

"I came to say that if you'd apologize to Aspinall things might
straighten."

"Might straighten! Oh, thanks!" he said, his face looking beastly
venomous. "I think you'd better go, really."

So we went, and I could not but feel that Bourne was right when he said on
parting, "Our friend will make himself superbly disagreeable over this,
take my word for it! But he won't get into the eleven, and I won't have a
soul know that old Aspinall's scar is the work of a fellow in St. Amory's,
either. If they have to know, he must tell them himself."