So while Corder, amid the jubilations of his supporters, who had grown twenty-fold since the beginning of the fight, was being escorted to his quarters, and Brinkman, crestfallen and bewildered, was being left by his disgusted backers to help himself, Yorke strolled on with Mr Stratton, and gave him, as well as he could, an account of the circumstances which for weeks had been leading up to this climax.
“I think it was as well to allow it,” said the master, “but there must be no more of it. You have a hard task before you to pull things together, Yorke, but it will be work well done.”
“Was it the right thing to dissolve the clubs, sir?” asked Yorke.
“At the time, yes. But watch your chance of reviving them. You must have some common interest on foot, to bring the two sides together.”
The captain walked back to his house in a brown study. He had half hoped Mr Stratton might offer to interpose and restore the harmony of the School. But no, the master had left it to the captain, and Yorke’s courage rose within him. God helping him, he would pull Fellsgarth together before he left.
On the Green he met Fullerton. It was long since the Modern and Classic seniors had nodded as they passed, but in the curious perversity of things both did so now.
“There’s been a fight, I hear?” said Fullerton.
“Yes. Brinkman and Corder. Corder had the best of it.”
“I’m jolly glad. Corder’s got more pluck than you’d give him credit for.”
“Yes; he’s had a rough time of it in your house.”