“Well,” said Clapperton, “they will keep; but we must have it out with Corder now. It’s no use simply cutting him; he’ll have to be taught that he can’t defy the house for nothing. Go and tell him to come, Brinkman.”
But Corder’s back was against the wall, literally and metaphorically.
To Brinkman’s demand (almost the first voice he had heard speaking to him for a week) he returned a curt refusal.
“Well, I’ll make you come,” said Brinkman. Whereupon Corder retreated behind his table and invited the interloper to begin.
To dodge round and round a study table after a nimble boy is not a very dignified operation for a prefect, particularly when the object of his chase is a prefect too; and Brinkman presently abandoned the quest and went off, breathing threatenings and slaughter, for reinforcements.
So did Corder. Less sensitive than his junior fellow-martyrs, he marched straight across to Yorke’s study. The captain was away, but in the adjoining room he found Fisher major and Denton, poring over their endless accounts.
“You two,” said Corder, “you’re prefects. You’re wanted over on the other side to stop bullying.”
“Who’s being bullied?”
“I am. I’ve been cut dead for a week. I’m sick of it. Now they’re going to lick me. I’d take my chance against them one at a time, but I can’t tackle three of them.”
“Is it for playing in the match?”