The Moderns were gloomy too. They had taken their course, and they must stand by it now. When they came to reflect, it was not a particularly glorious one, nor did it seem to promise much by way of compensation. They were done out of football for the rest of the term; they were reduced to a faction in Fellsgarth, and what was worse, they were secretly doubtful whether they were quite as much in the right as they tried to persuade themselves.
They had taken their course, however, and must go on.
“I suppose none of our side will go on the omnibus,” said Brinkman.
“Why not?” said Clapperton. “It will do them good to have spectators. I shall go; not that I care about it, but just to assert my rights.”
“Hurrah for self-sacrifice!” said Fullerton. “If your principles will allow you to take chicken and tongue sandwiches with you, I’ll go too.”
“It’s ten to one they’ll try to prevent our going,” said Dangle; “I hope they’ll try.”
When the two coaches drove up to carry the fifteen and the prefects and other privileged boys to the scene of conflict, a good deal of surprise was evinced at the appearance of Clapperton, Brinkman, Dangle, and Fullerton, in ordinary costume, and without bags, ready to accompany the party.
Contrary to their expectations and hopes, no protest was made, and, as far as the Classic seniors were concerned, no notice was vouchsafed them. This was annoying, particularly as the juniors present took care to call attention to their presence.
“Look at ’em,” cried Wally; “don’t they look clever?”
“Kicked out of the team—serve ’em right!” shouted Ashby.