“Only by sight.”
“I met him just now. He’s in a raving condition. His study’s been wrecked. You never saw such a sight. Everything upside down or smashed. He has been showing me the ruins.”
“I believe Mill is awfully barred in Seymour’s,” said Trevor. “Anybody might have ragged his study.”
“That’s just what I thought. He’s just the sort of man the League used to go for.”
“That doesn’t prove that it’s been revived, all the same,” objected Trevor.
“No, friend; but this does. Mill found it tied to a chair.”
It was a small card. It looked like an ordinary visiting card. On it, in neat print, were the words, “With the compliments of the League”.
“That’s exactly the same sort of card as they used to use,” said Clowes. “I’ve seen some of them. What do you think of that?”
“I think whoever has started the thing is a pretty average-sized idiot. He’s bound to get caught some time or other, and men out he goes. The Old Man wouldn’t think twice about sacking a chap of that sort.”
“A chap of that sort,” said Clowes, “will take jolly good care he isn’t caught. But it’s rather sport, isn’t it?”
And he went off to his study.
Next day there was further evidence that the League was an actual going concern. When Trevor came down to breakfast, he found a letter by his plate. It was printed, as the card had been. It was signed “The President of the League.” And the purport of it was that the League did not wish Barry to continue to play for the first fifteen.
V. MILL RECEIVES VISITORS
Trevor’s first idea was that somebody had sent the letter for a joke,—Clowes for choice.
He sounded him on the subject after breakfast.
“Did you send me that letter?” he inquired, when Clowes came into his study to borrow a Sportsman.
“What letter? Did you send the team for tomorrow up to the sporter? I wonder what sort of a lot the Town are bringing.”
“About not giving Barry his footer colours?”
Clowes was reading the paper.
“Giving whom?” he asked.
“Barry. Can’t you listen?”
“Giving him what?”
“Footer colours.”
“What about them?”
Trevor sprang at the paper, and tore it away from him. After which he sat on the fragments.
“Did you send me a letter about not giving Barry his footer colours?”
Clowes surveyed him with the air of a nurse to whom the family baby has just said some more than usually good thing.
“Don’t stop,” he said, “I could listen all day.”
Trevor felt in his pocket for the note, and flung it at him. Clowes picked it up, and read it gravely.
“What are footer colours?” he asked.
“Well,” said Trevor, “it’s a pretty rotten sort of joke, whoever sent it. You haven’t said yet whether you did or not.”
“What earthly reason should I have for sending it? And I think you’re making a mistake if you think this is meant as a joke.”
“You don’t really believe this League rot?”
“You didn’t see Mill’s study ‘after treatment’. I did. Anyhow, how do you account for the card I showed you?”
“But that sort of thing doesn’t happen at school.”
“Well, it has happened, you see.”
“Who do you think did send the letter, then?”
“The President of the League.”
“And who the dickens is the President of the League when he’s at home?”
“If I knew that, I should tell Mill, and earn his blessing. Not that I want it.”
“Then, I suppose,” snorted Trevor, “you’d suggest that on the strength of this letter I’d better leave Barry out of the team?”
“Satirically in brackets,” commented Clowes.
“It’s no good your jumping on me” he added. “I’ve done nothing. All I suggest is that you’d better keep more or less of a look-out. If this League’s anything like the old one, you’ll find they’ve all sorts of ways of getting at people they don’t love. I shouldn’t like to come down for a bath some morning, and find you already in possession, tied up like Robinson. When they found Robinson, he was quite blue both as to the face and speech. He didn’t speak very clearly, but what one could catch was well worth hearing. I should advise you to sleep with a loaded revolver under your pillow.”