One was that, strange as it seemed, there must be something in Silk's story.

He could hardly have invented it and stuck to it in the way he had for no other purpose than embarrassing the captain; and the pressure he had applied to get Riddell to withdraw the names before the doctor saw them, confirmed this idea.
The other point made clear was that his duty, at whatever cost, even at the cost of young Wyndham himself, was to report the fight and make no terms with the offenders.

If the result was what Silk threatened, he could only hope the doctor would deal leniently with the boy.
One other thing was clear too.

He must see both Wyndham and Bloomfield in the morning.
With which resolve, and not without a prayer for wisdom better than his own to act in this crisis, he retired to bed.
Early next morning, before almost any sign of life showed itself in Willoughby, the captain was up and dressed.
The magic that so often attends on a night's sleep had done its work on him, and as he walked across the quadrangle that fresh summer morning his head was clear and his mind made up.
The outer door of the schoolhouse was still unopened, and he paced outside, as it seemed to him, for half an hour before he could get in.
He went at once to Wyndham's study, and found that young athlete arraying himself in his cricket flannels.
"Hullo, Riddell!" cried he, as the captain entered; "have you come to see the practice?
We're going to play a scratch match with some of the seniors.

You play too, will you ?" The captain did not reply to this invitation, and his serious face convinced Wyndham something must be wrong.
"What's up, I say ?" he inquired, looking concerned.
"Nothing very pleasant," said Riddell.