Chivalry is infectious. For the next quarter of an hour the meadow was given up to cheers by Templeton for Grandcourt, and cheers by Grandcourt for Templeton, in which the gallant seventy-two, despite their numerical inferiority, held their own with admirable pluck.
Then, a mighty bell tolled out across the meads, and conqueror and conquered, united in the brotherhood of appetite and good fellowship, turned in to supper, carrying their cheers with them.
Now was the hour of our heroes’ perplexity. For, be it said to their credit as gentlemen, that however easily they may have got over their scruples as to breaking Templeton rules, riding in Templeton coaches, and enjoying themselves in the Grandcourt meadows, they had some hesitation about making free with the Grandcourt supper without a rather more precise invitation than they were already possessed of.
So they lagged a little behind the seventy, put their Templeton badges conspicuously forward, and tried to look as if supper had never entered into their calculations.
“Aren’t you two fellows coming to supper?” said a Grandcourt senior, overtaking them as they dawdled along.
“Thanks, awfully,” said they; “perhaps there won’t be room.”
“Rather!” said the hospitable enemy, “you two won’t crowd us out.”
“We’ll sit close, you know,” said Dick.
“Better not sit too close to begin with,” said the Grandcourt boy, laughing, “or it’ll be real jam before supper’s over. Cut on and join your fellows, and squeeze into the first seat you can find.”
The first seat our heroes found was one between Ponty and the Grandcourt head master, which, on consideration, they decided not to be appropriate. They therefore made hard for the other end of the room, and wedged themselves in among a lot of jolly Grandcourt juniors, who hailed them with vociferous cheers, and commenced to load them with a liberal share of all the good things the hospitable table groaned under.