“Who’s kicked out?” retorted the Modern fags. “It would take better chaps than you to kick them out.”
“Don’t you wish you could kick them in? They know better,” retorted Percy and Co.
Amid such embarrassing comments, the four Modern heroes mounted to their places.
The cheers of their adherents hardly made up for the chilly welcome of their travelling companions. Yorke, seeing Clapperton looking for a place, politely moved up to make room, and then turned his back and talked to Ranger. The other three were similarly cut off, Dangle finding himself in between Fisher major and Denton, who talked across him. Brinkman, on another coach, was tucked in among some rowdy Classic middle-boys who were discussing the “strike” very vigorously among themselves. As for Fullerton, he was lucky enough to get the seat beside the driver, where, at any rate, he could count on one sympathetic soul into whose ears to pour his occasional words of wisdom.
Just as the first coach was starting, a shout was heard from across the Green, and Corder, the Modern boy whose services were declined on the previous occasion, equipped in an ulster and with his bag in his hand, appeared signalling for the cortège to wait.
“Well! what is it?” demanded Dangle.
“Is Yorke there? Yorke, can I play to-day?”
“No, you can’t,” said Dangle in a menacing undertone. “None of us are playing; you know that.”
“I don’t see why I mayn’t play if I have the chance,” said Corder. “I awfully want to play in the fifteen.”
“We’re a man short,” said Yorke. “You can play, Corder.”