“What do you mean?” said Dangle, very white.
“What I say. You’ll either do that or be kicked off.”
Here Clapperton interposed.
“Don’t go, Dangle; he’s no right to turn you off or talk to you like that before the field because of an accident. If you go, I’ll go too.”
“Go, both of you, then,” said Yorke.
The two Modern boys looked for a moment as though they doubted their own ears. What could Yorke mean, in the middle of a critical match like this?
He evidently meant what he said.
“Are you going or not?” said he.
It was a choice of evils. To play now would be to surrender. To stay where they were would render them liable to a kicking in the presence of all Fellsgarth. They sullenly turned on their heels and walked behind the goals. Most of the spectators supposed it was a case of sprained ankle or some such damage received in the cause of the School. But the acute little birds who sat in the oak tree were not to be deceived, and took good care to point the moral of the incident for the public benefit.
“Whiroo! Cads! Kicked out! Serve ’em right! Good riddance! Play up, you chaps!”