The idea seemed a good one, but risky. Cottle calculated that after about the fourth time Clapperton would be a little riled. He therefore modestly proposed to follow Percy. Cash and Lickford competed smartly for the third place, the former being successful. Ramshaw, having to come fifth, had decided misgivings as to the fun of the thing; while the Classic juniors declined to play unless all the others remained on the spot ready to back up in case of emergency.
It was also decided that, for precautionary reasons, the key of Clapperton’s door should be removed for the time being, lest he should try to lock the good news out; and that an interval of two minutes should be allowed to elapse between each messenger’s announcement.
Little dreaming of the exquisite torture being prepared for him, Clapperton sat in his study engaged in the farce of preparation.
He had plenty to think of besides lessons. Things had all gone wrong with him. Dangle and he had fought. Brinkman, after his thrashing by Corder, no longer counted. Fullerton had rebelled, and was taking boys over every day to the enemy. Corder had successfully defied his—Clapperton’s—authority, and the juniors snapped their fingers at him.
And yet Clapperton had come up this term determined to lay himself out for his side, and be the most popular prefect in Fellsgarth!
His one comfort was that the Classics were under a cloud too. One of their number was a runaway thief; and a stigma rested on their side worse than any that attached to the Moderns.
He was trying to make the most of this questionable consolation when the door opened, and Percy bounced in.
“I say, Clapperton; Fisher’s found the money. Rollitt’s not a thief. Ain’t you glad? Hurray!”
And, without waiting, he retired as suddenly as he had come.
Clapperton gaped at the door by which he had gone in amazement. He had never calculated on this. This was the worst thing yet. It showed Yorke had been right, and that he and Dangle—