A flush of something like shame mounted to the captain’s cheeks. He had no love for this fellow. He owed him little gratitude. And yet the sight of him thus solitary, cut off from the stream, stirred him.
Did he not try, in his humble way, to follow in the footsteps of One Who said, “Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you”? And was not this an opportunity for putting that faith of his to the test of practice?
He quickened his pace, and overtook Clapperton. The Modern senior wheeled round half-savagely.
“Clapperton,” said the captain, “we’ve been enemies all this term. I’ve thought harshly of you, and you’ve thought harshly of me. Why shouldn’t we be friends?”
“What!” almost growled Clapperton; “are you making a fool of me?”
“No—but we’ve tried hating one another long enough. Let’s try being friends for a change.”
They stood facing one another; the one serene, honest, inviting; the other dejected and doubting. But as their eyes met the fires kindled again in Clapperton’s face, and the cloud swept off his brow. He pulled his hand from his pocket and held it out.
“Done with you, Yorke. You’re the last fellow in Fellsgarth I expected to call friend just now.”