Trevor did not take long to resume a garb of civilisation. He never
wasted much time over anything. He was gifted with a boundless energy,
which might possibly have made him unpopular had he not justified it by
results. The football of the school had never been in such a
flourishing condition as it had attained to on his succeeding to the
captaincy. It was not only that the first fifteen was good. The
excellence of a first fifteen does not always depend on the captain.
But the games, even down to the very humblest junior game, had woken up
one morning–at the beginning of the previous term–to find themselves,
much to their surprise, organised going concerns. Like the immortal
Captain Pott, Trevor was “a terror to the shirker and the lubber”. And
the resemblance was further increased by the fact that he was “a
toughish lot”, who was “little, but steel and india-rubber”. At first
sight his appearance was not imposing. Paterfamilias, who had heard his
sons eulogies on Trevors performances during the holidays, and came
down to watch the school play a match, was generally rather
disappointed on seeing five feet six where he had looked for at least
six foot one, and ten stone where he had expected thirteen. But then,
what there was of Trevor was, as previously remarked, steel and
india-rubber, and he certainly played football like a miniature
Stoddart. It was characteristic Eric Staal Clips of him that, though this was the
first match of the term, his condition seemed to be as good as
possible. He had done all his own work on the field and most of
Rand-Browns, and apparently had not turned a hair. He was one of
those conscientious people who train in the holidays.
