Chapter Thirteen.
Corder to the Front.
The morning of the return match with Rendlesham was damp and muggy, and so assorted well with the spirits of Fellsgarth generally.
The juniors of course were cheerful—everything came in the day’s work for them—but among the seniors on either side gloom prevailed. Even Ranger, the lighthearted, was snappish, as his fag discovered; and Denton, the amiable, hoped he would not, for his temper’s sake, meet too many Moderns between morning and evening. The captain, though he kept up his usual show of serenity, was evidently worried. But he had no notion of giving in. No! If the School was to be thrashed let them take their thrashing like men, and not whine about like the “other boys.”
“After all,” said he to Ranger, “we may not get glory, but we needn’t lose it. Only, for goodness’ sake, let us keep our rows to ourselves, and not talk about them out of doors.”
“Right you are!” said his friend. “I wish I had your temper. The cads! And after the way you’ve treated them, too. Why, some of us thought you went out of your way to favour them.”
The captain grunted, and began to throw his flannels into his bag.
“What about Rollitt?” he asked.
“No go. He’s gone off for a day’s fishing.”
The captain whistled dismally. “Then we must play a man short. There’s no one else worth putting in. It’s like marching to one’s execution,” he said; “I wish it was all over. But it’s only just beginning.”