Chapter Eighteen.
Rollitt makes a Record for Fellsgarth.
The Modern seniors had slept on soundly that morning, secure of their prey. The military operations of the preceding evening, although they resulted in the night of the besieged, had not tended to the glory of the besiegers. Indeed, when the door had at last been broken in and it was discovered that the birds had flown, a titter had gone round at the expense of Messrs Clapperton, Dangle, and Brinkman, which had been particularly riling to those gentlemen.
When in the morning the birds were found to have flown once more, the position of the seniors became positively painful. Fullerton, as usual, did not salve the wound.
“I should say—not that it matters much to me—that that scores another to the rebels,” said he. “How very naughty of them not to stay and be whopped, to be sure!”
“The young cads!” growled Clapperton, who had the grace to be perfectly aware that he had been made ridiculous. “I don’t envy them when I get hold of them.”
“No more do I,” said Fullerton, “with their door off its hinges. It will be very draughty.”
“Do shut up. Why don’t you go and join the enemy at once, if you’re so fond of them?” said Dangle.