The seniors represented him as a cross between Nero and Caliban, and could not forgive him for being head classic.
The one thing fellows could appreciate in him was his temper.

A child in arms, if he knew the way, could get a rise out of Cad Jeffreys, and in these dull times that was something to be thankful for.
Forrester was perhaps the most expert of Jeffreys' enemies.

He worried the Cad not so much out of spite as because it amused him, and, like the nimble matador, he kept well out of reach of the bull all the time he was firing shots at him.
"Hullo, Jeff!" he called out, as the Cad approached.

"Are you going to play in the match on Saturday ?" "No," said Jeffreys.
"You're not?
Haven't you got any old clothes to play in ?" Jeffreys' brow darkened.

He glanced down at his own shabby garments, and then at Scarfe's neat suit.
"I've got flannels," he said.
"Flannels! Why don't you play, then?
Do you think you won't look well in flannels?
He would, wouldn't he, Scarfe ?" "I don't see how he could look better than he does now," replied Scarfe, looking at the figure before him.