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