"That's the way he strikes me." After dinner that evening Paul bewailed what he called his ill luck.
Neil listened patiently for a while; then-- "Look here, Paul," he said, "don't talk such rot.

Luck had nothing to do with it, and you know it.

The trouble was that you weren't in shape; you've been shilly-shallying around of late and just doing good enough work to keep Mills from dropping you to the scrub.

It's that miserable idiot Tom Cowan that's to blame; he's been filling your head with nonsense; telling you that you are so good that you don't have to practise, and that Mills doesn't dare drop you, and lots of poppycock of that kind.

Now, I'll tell you, chum, that the best thing to do is to go honestly to work and do your best." Paul was deeply insulted by this plain speaking, and very promptly took himself off up-stairs to Cowan's room.