It was evidently no use trying to conciliate a fellow like this, and Riddell began to get tired of the interview.
“I don’t want to offend you or anybody,” said he boldly; “but if you and Tucker won’t take the trouble to start the club, I don’t see that all the house is to be done out of their cricket in consequence. The fellows have little enough to keep them together as it is.”
“You are a nice little thing to keep them together with, I must say,” snarled Silk, “and you’ve made a good start by setting the juniors against their seniors.”
“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” replied Riddell, quietly; “and if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some work to do, and there’s really not much use talking on the subject.”
So saying, he turned, and began taking his books down from the shelf.
Silk, whose irritation had been gradually getting beyond bounds, was pleased to regard this action as a direct insult to himself, and flared up accordingly.
“Look here, you snivelling, stuck-up, hypocritical prig, you!” exclaimed he, advancing and seizing the captain roughly by the arm, “we’d better come to an understanding at once. If you think you’re going to cheek us just as you please here, you’re mistaken, I tell you. What do you mean by it?”
“By what?” inquired Riddell, mildly, but quite composedly.
Silk’s only reply was a passionate blow in the captain’s face, which sent him staggering to the other side of the room.
It was a critical moment. Riddell was no coward, nor was he one of those sickly individuals who, not satisfied to be struck on one cheek only, invite a repetition of the assault on the other side. Physically weak and nervous as he was, he had sufficient British instinct to move him to stand up for himself.