It was not to be expected that in the present state of party feeling at Fellsgarth the incident recorded in the last chapter would be confined to a personal quarrel between Dangle and Rollitt.

If it be true that it takes two to make a quarrel, there was not much to be feared in the latter respect. For Rollitt was apparently unaware that he had done anything calling for general remark, and went his ways with his customary indifference.

When Dangle, egged on by the indignation of his friends, had gone across to find him and demand satisfaction, Rollitt had told him to call again to-morrow, as he was busy.

Dangle therefore called again.

"I've come to ask if you mean to apologise for what you did the other day? If you don't--"

"Get out!" said Rollitt, going on with his work.

"--If you don't," continued Dangle, "you'll have to take the consequences."

"Get out!"

"If you funk it, Rollitt, you'd better say so."

"Get out," said Rollitt, rising slowly to his feet.

Dangle reported, when he got back to his house, that argument had been hopeless. Yet he meant to take it out of his adversary some other way.

But if the princ.i.p.als in the quarrel were inactive, their adherents on either side took care to keep up the feud.

The Modern juniors especially, who felt very sore at the indignity put upon their house, took up the cudgels very fiercely. Secretly they admitted that Dangle had cut rather a poor figure, and that they could have made a much better job over the impounded football than he had by his interference. But that had nothing to do with the conduct of the enemy, whom they took every opportunity of defying and deriding.

"There go the sneaks," shouted Lickford, as the four Cla.s.sic juniors paraded arm in arm across the Green. "Who got licked by our chap and had to squeal for a prefect to come and help them? Oh my--waterspouts!"

"Ya--_how now_--_oh no, not me_!" Percy shouted for the special benefit of Fisher minor.

"Look at them! They daren't come our side. Cowards!--daren't come on to our side of the path," chimed in Cash.

"Look at their short legs," called Ramshaw; "only useful for cutting away when they see a Modern."

"Who got licked on the hands for cheating at Elections, and blubbed like anything!" put in Cottle.

The four heroes walked on, hearing every word and trying to appear as if they did not. They spoke to one another with forced voices and mechanical smiles, and did their best not to be self-conscious in the matter of their legs.

But as the defiance grew bolder in proportion as they walked further, Wally said--

"I say, this is a drop too much. We can't stand this, eh?"

"No; the cads!" chimed in the other three.

"Tell you what," said Wally, "it wouldn't be a bad joke to have a punt- about with their football right under their noses, would it?"

"How if they bag it?"

"Bother!--we must chance that."

"I say," said Ashby, "if we could bag their boots first!"

"Can't do that; but we might wait till they're in their cla.s.s after breakfast in the morning. They go in half an hour before us. I know, they all sit near the window, and are squinting out at everybody that pa.s.ses. Won't they squirm?"

Next morning therefore at early school, as Percy and Company sat huddled at their desks in the Modern cla.s.s-room, biting their pens, groaning over their sums, and gazing dismally from the window all at the same time, they had the unspeakable anguish of beholding Wally, D'Arcy, Ashby, and Fisher minor, with _their_ ball, having a ding-dong game of punt-about on the sacred Modern gra.s.s, under their very eyes.

How these four enjoyed themselves and kicked about the ball, nodding and kissing their hands all the while at the mortified enemy, who sat like caged beasts glaring at them through their bars, and gnawing their fingers in impotent fury!

Sometimes, to add a little relish to the sport, they invited a pa.s.sing prefect of their own house to give the ball a punt, and once a neat drop-kick from D'Arcy left a muddy splotch on the face of the sundial above border's door.

This was too much; and when, a few minutes later, they caught sight of the marauders waving to them and calling attention by pantomimic gesture to the fact that they were carrying off the ball once more to their own quarters, Percy could contain himself no longer.

"Beasts!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Wheatfield," said Mr Forder, who was in charge of the cla.s.s, "write me out fifty lines of the _Paradise Lost_ and a letter of apology in Latin for using bad language in cla.s.s."

Percy was conducted home by his friends that morning in a critical state. He felt it necessary to kick somebody, and therefore kicked them; and they, entirely misunderstanding his motives, kicked back.

Consequently, a good deal of time was occupied in arranging matters all round on a comfortable footing; by the end of which time the fraternity, though marred in visage, felt generally easier in its mind.

It was no use appealing to the Modern prefects. They had made a mess of it so far, and weren't to be trusted. Nor did the course of lodging a complaint with Yorke commend itself to the company. It might be mistaken for telling tales. How would it do to--

Here entered Robert, the school porter, with a letter addressed "Wheatfield minor, Mr Forder's," in a scholarly hand.

"Wheatfield minor," snarled Percy; "that's not me, Bob. What do you take me for! Here, take it over to Wakefield's, and look about for the dirtiest, ugliest, beastliest kid you can see. That's Wheatfield minor."

"You'll be sore to know him by his likeness to Percy," added Cash, by way of encouragement.

"But Wakefield's ain't Forder's," observed the sage Robert. "Look what the envelope says."

True; it must be meant for Percy after all.

"You go and tell him it's like his howling cheek to call me minor, whoever it is; and when I catch him I'll welt him. Do you hear?"

"Very good, sir, I'll tell him," said the porter with a grin.

Meanwhile Percy had opened the letter and caught sight of the signature.

He uttered a whistle of amazement.

"Hullo!" he cried, "it's from Stratton! Whatever--Oh, I say, Bob, it doesn't matter about that message; do you hear!"

"Won't be no trouble, sir," said the porter.

"If I want to give it I'll do it myself," said Percy.

"Whatever's it about?" said his friends.

"Dear Wheatfield minor,"--(cheek!) read Percy, "Mrs Stratton and I will be glad to see you and three or four of your friends to tea this evening at six. I will arrange with Mr Forder to give you exeats from preparation."