To Yorke, of course, belonged the honour.
But Yorke, to every one's surprise, stood out.
"No," said he.

"It's Clapperton's goal; he shall kick it." So Fellsgarth, perhaps for the first and only time in its records, stood by and witnessed the phenomenon of its captain carrying out the ball and placing it for the vice-captain to kick.
It needed all Clapperton's nerve to save him from flurry and failure even over an easy task like this.

But he pulled himself together and kicked the goal.
And with that kick he sent flying into the air the last remnant of the bad blood and jealousy which had marred the term and all but wrecked the good old School.
Here let us say good-bye--perhaps not for good.

For Yorke and Rollitt, and Clapperton and Fisher, and all of them, are still alive and kicking.
Rollitt, to the general regret, but to his own satisfaction, left Fellsgarth at the end of the term for the more congenial course of a school of engineering.

Before he left he invited Fisher minor to tea in his room, and alarmed that young gentleman by sitting for a whole hour without uttering a word.