Burgess repeated the main facts of the case as he had them from Firby-Smith.
"Personally, I sympathise with the kid," he added. "Still, the Gazeka is a prefect"
Bob gnawed a pen-holder morosely.
"Silly young idiot," he said.
"Sickening thing being run out," suggested Burgess.
"Still"
"I know. It's rather hard to see what to do. I suppose if the Gazeka insists, one's bound to support him."
"I suppose so."
"Awful rot. Prefects' lickings aren't meant for that sort of thing. They're supposed to be for kids who steal buns at the shop or muck about generally. Not for a chap who curses a fellow who runs him out. I tell you what, there's just a chance Firby-Smith won't press the thing. He hadn't had time to get over it when he saw me. By now he'll have simmered down a bit. Look here, you're a pal of his, aren't you? Well, go and ask him to drop the business. Say you'll curse your brother and make him apologise, and that I'll kick him out of the team for the Geddington match."
It was a difficult moment for Bob. One cannot help one's thoughts, and for an instant the idea of going to Geddington with the team, as he would certainly do if Mike did not play, made him waver. But he recovered himself.
"Don't do that," he said. "I don't see there's a need for anything of that sort. You must play the best side you've got. I can easily talk the old Gazeka over. He gets all right in a second if he's treated the right way. I'll go and do it now."
Burgess looked miserable.
"I say, Bob," he said.
"Yes?"
"Oh, nothing—I mean, you're not a bad sort." With which glowing eulogy he dashed out of the room, thanking his stars that he had won through a confoundedly awkward business.
