P. G. Wodehouse

“ Do you know Mill, a prefect, in Seymour’s?”
“Only by sight.”
“I met him just now. He’s in a raving condition. His study’s been wrecked. You never saw such a sight. Everything upside down or smashed. He has been showing me the ruins.”
“I believe Mill is awfully barred in Seymour’s,” said Trevor. “Anybody might have ragged his study.”
“That’s just what I thought. He’s just the sort of man the League used to go for.”
“That doesn’t prove that it’s been revived, all the same,” objected Trevor. ”

“ The Old Man wouldn’t think twice about sacking a chap of that sort.”
“A chap of that sort,” said Clowes, “will take jolly good care he isn’t caught. But it’s rather sport, isn’t it?”
And he went off to his study.
Next day there was further evidence that the League was an actual going concern. When Trevor came down to breakfast, he found a letter by his plate. It was printed, as the card had been. It was signed “The President of the League.” And the purport of it was that the League did not wish Barry to continue to play for the first fifteen. ”

“ M’Todd saw no objection to that. Trotting along at his ordinary pace—­five miles an hour—­would just suit him.
“Then after that,” continued Barry, with a look of enthusiasm, “I want to practise passing back to my centre. Paget used to do it awfully well last term, and I know Trevor expects his wing to. So I’ll buck along, and you race up to take my pass. See?”
This was not in M’Todd’s line at all. He proposed a slight alteration in the scheme.
“Hadn’t you better get somebody else—?” he began.
“Don’t be a slack beast,” said Barry. “You want exercise awfully badly.” ”