"I'm sorry to see any boys of my house taking so little interest in
their matches."

Mr. Prout could move very silently if he pleased, though that is no
merit in a boy's eyes. He had flung open the study-door without
knocking--another sin--and looked at them suspiciously. "Very sorry,
indeed, I am to see you frowsting in your studies."

"We've been out ever since dinner, sir," said. McTurk wearily. One
house-match is just like another, and their "ploy" of that week
happened to be rabbit-shooting with saloon-pistols.

"I can't see a ball when it's coming, sir," said Beetle. "I've had my
gig-lamps smashed at the Nets till I got excused. I wasn't any good
even as a fag, then, sir."

"Tuck is probably your form. Tuck and brewing. Why can't you three
take any interest in the honor of your house?"

They had heard that phrase till they were wearied. The "honor of the
house" was Prout's weak point, and they knew well how to flick him on
the raw.

"If you order us to go down, sir, of course we'll go," said Stalky,
with maddening politeness. But Prout knew better than that. He had
tried the experiment once at a big match, when the three,
self-isolated, stood to attention for half an hour in full view of
all the visitors, to whom fags, subsidized for that end, pointed them
out as victims of Prout's tyranny. And Prout was a sensitive man.