There was somehow a lurking sense of shame which made it difficult for Bolsover to rise in arms on account of the injury done to itself.

Money had been wasted, appetites had been lost, digestions had been ruined in that shop, and they knew it.
If you had put the question to any one of the boys who crowded down, hungry after their bath, to breakfast on the day of the football match, he would have told you that Frampton was as great a brute as ever, and that it was a big shame to make fellows play whether they liked it or not.

For all that, he would tell you, _he_ was going to play, much as he hated it, to avoid a row.

And if you had pressed him further he would have confided to you that it was expected the School would beat the Sixth, and that he rather hoped, as he must play, he would get a chance at the ball before the match was over.

From all which you might gather that Bolsover was reluctantly coming round to take an interest in the event.
"Fortune favours the brave," said Mr Steele, one of his assistants, to the head-master at dinner-time.