From the biggest boys to Dickson Minor,
no one cared to risk the limitless possibilities of an encounter, and the
word "carrots" was not so much as whispered in his hearing.
Then in the late afternoon the real day seemed to begin. Then the
hardness and distrust with which he had unconsciously armed himself fell
away, and he and Rufus Cosgrave sat side by side in the sooty grass behind
the biscuit factory, and with arms clasped about their scarred and grubby
knees planned out the vague but glorious time that waited for them. Rufus
was to be a Civil Servant. He did not seem to care much for the prospect
or even to be very clear as to what would be expected of him. He felt,
with Robert, that a Civil Servant sounded servile and romanceless, but
unfortunately the profession, whatever it was, ran in the family.
"My father's one, you know. So I've got to. I'd rather play the piano.
But, of course, I wouldn't say so to anyone but you. It sounds too
beastly silly----"
"I'd say whatever I wanted to," Robert retorted grandly, "I'll always say
what I want to and do what I jolly well like when I'm grown up anyhow.
You can if you're strong enough."
"But then people hate you," Rufus said sadly.
"That doesn't matter a bit."
"Don't you mind people not liking you?"
"Rather not."
Rufus fumbled anxiously.
"Wouldn't you be pleased if--if you were asked to play in the eleven--and
the chaps cheered you like they do Christopher when he kicks a goal?"
"I shouldn't care--not a button.
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