“Did he?” replied Clapperton, opening the envelope.
Evidently Yorke in his reply had not been guilty of a joke, for the face of the Modern captain was dark and scowling as he read it.
“Cool cheek,” muttered he. “Dangle was right, after all. You can go, youngster.”
“All right. I say, they’ve got the fifteen stuck up on the boards—six of our chaps in it. We ought to lick them this year.”
But as Clapperton did not do him the favour of heeding his observations, he retired, and tried vainly to collect his scattered forces to conclude the eight-handed boxing match, which had been so unfeelingly interrupted an hour ago.
Clapperton, to do him justice, could not deny to himself that the team selected by the captain was the best fighting fifteen the School could put into the football field. But, having advanced his claim for half numbers, his pride was hurt at finding it almost contemptuously set aside. It would never do for him to climb down now.
The Moderns, after all, had a right to have their men in; and he had a right to assume they were better players than some of the selected Classics. It was easy to work himself into a rage, and talk about favouritism, and abuse of privilege, and all that. His popularity in his own house depended on his fighting their battles, and he must do it now. So he wrote a reply to Yorke.
“Dear Yorke,—I do not agree with you about the fifteen. I consider the men on our side whom you have omitted are better than the three I have marked on your list. If we are to make the clubs a success, we ought to pull together, and let there be no suspicion, however groundless, of favouritism.
“Yours truly, Geo. Clapperton.”
To this letter, which he sent over by another junior, more expeditious than his last, he received the following reply:—