Milton had a healthy appetite.
“Then there used to be some biscuits.”
“Biscuits are off. I finished ’em yesterday. Look here, young Renford, what you’d better do is cut across to the shop and get some more cake and some more biscuits, and tell ’em to put it down to me. And don’t be long.”
“A miles better idea would be to send him over to Donaldson’s to fetch something from my study,” suggested Trevor. “It isn’t nearly so far, and I’ve got heaps of stuff.”
“Ripping. Cut over to Donaldson’s, young Renford. As a matter of fact,” he added, confidentially, when the emissary had vanished, “I’m not half sure that the other dodge would have worked. They seem to think at the shop that I’ve had about enough things on tick lately. I haven’t settled up for last term yet. I’ve spent all I’ve got on this study. What do you think of those photographs?”
Trevor got up and inspected them. They filled the mantelpiece and most of the wall above it. They were exclusively theatrical photographs, and of a variety to suit all tastes. For the earnest student of the drama there was Sir Henry Irving in The Bells, and Mr Martin Harvey in The Only Way. For the admirers of the merely beautiful there were Messrs Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell.
“Not bad,” said Trevor. “Beastly waste of money.”
“Waste of money!” Milton was surprised and pained at the criticism. “Why, you must spend your money on something.”
“Rot, I call it,” said Trevor. “If you want to collect something, why don’t you collect something worth having?”
Just then Renford came back with the supplies.
“Thanks,” said Milton, “put ’em down. Does the billy boil, young Renford?”
Renford asked for explanatory notes.
“You’re a bit of an ass at times, aren’t you?” said Milton, kindly. “What I meant was, is the tea ready? If it is, you can scoot. If it isn’t, buck up with it.”
A sound of bubbling and a rush of steam from the spout of the kettle proclaimed that the billy did boil. Renford extinguished the Etna, and left the room, while Milton, murmuring vague formulae about “one spoonful for each person and one for the pot”, got out of his chair with a groan—for the Town match had been an energetic one—and began to prepare tea.
“What I really came round about—” began Trevor.
“Half a second. I can’t find the milk.”
He went to the door, and shouted for Renford. On that overworked youth’s appearance, the following dialogue took place.
“Where’s the milk?”
“What milk?”
“My milk.”
“There isn’t any.” This in a tone not untinged with triumph, as if the speaker realised that here was a distinct score to him.
“No milk?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You never had any.”
“Well, just cut across—no, half a second. What are you doing downstairs?”
“Having tea.”
“Then you’ve got milk.”
“Only a little.” This apprehensively.
“Bring it up. You can have what we leave.”
Disgusted retirement of Master Renford.
“What I really came about,” said Trevor again, “was business.”
“Colours?” inquired Milton, rummaging in the tin for biscuits with sugar on them. “Good brand of biscuit you keep, Trevor.”
“Yes. I think we might give Alexander and Parker their third.”
“All right. Any others?”
“Barry his second, do you think?”
“Rather. He played a good game today. He’s an improvement on Rand-Brown.”
“Glad you think so. I was wondering whether it was the right thing to do, chucking Rand-Brown out after one trial like that. But still, if you think Barry’s better—”
“Streets better. I’ve had heaps of chances of watching them and comparing them, when they’ve been playing for the house. It isn’t only that Rand-Brown can’t tackle, and Barry can. Barry takes his passes much better, and doesn’t lose his head when he’s pressed.”
“Just what I thought,” said Trevor. “Then you’d go on playing him for the first?”
“Rather. He’ll get better every game, you’ll see, as he gets more used to playing in the first three-quarter line. And he’s as keen as anything on getting into the team. Practises taking passes and that sort of thing every day.”
“Well, he’ll get his colours if we lick Ripton.”