not the being expelled that is so peculiarly objectionable: it is the
sudden homecoming. With this gloomy vision before him, Trevor almost
wavered. But the thought that the selection of the team had nothing
whatever to do with his personal feelings strengthened him. He was
simply a machine, devised to select the fifteen best men in the school
to meet Ripton. In his official capacity of football captain he was not
supposed to have any feelings. However, he yielded in so far that he
went to Clowes to ask his opinion.

Clowes, having heard everything and seen the letter, unhesitatingly
voted for the right course. If fifty mad Irishmen were to be expelled,
Barry must play against Ripton. He was the best man, and in he must go.

"That's what I thought," said Trevor. "It's bad for O'Hara, though."

Clowes remarked somewhat tritely that business was business.

"Besides," he went on, "you're assuming that the thing this letter
hints at will really come off. I don't think it will. A man would have
to be such an awful blackguard to go as low as that. The least grain of
decency in him would stop him. I can imagine a man threatening to do it
as a piece of bluff--by the way, the letter doesn't actually say
anything of the sort, though I suppose it hints at it--but I can't
imagine anybody out of a melodrama doing it."

"You can never tell," said Trevor. He felt that this was but an outside
chance. The forbearance of one's antagonist is but a poor thing to
trust to at the best of times.

"Are you going to tell O'Hara?" asked Clowes.