"Yes, but I say, Wally, I mean Wheatfield--" "Humph--I suppose you held up both hands for your precious brother yesterday." "No, only one. I was nearly late, though. I waited an hour at the gymnasium, you know, and no Modern chaps came out at all." Percy began to smell rats. "Waited at the gymnasium, did you? Who told you to do that?" "Oh, you know--it was part of the canvassing." "Oh, _you_ were in that job, were you, my boy? All serene, I'll--" "I say," cried Fisher minor, turning pale, "aren't you Wally Wheatfield? I thought--" "Me Wally? what do you take me for? I'll let you know who I am. You're a beauty, you are. Some of our chaps'll tell you who I am, Mr Canvasser. Now, look here, you stop there till I come back from Yorke's. If you move an inch--whew! you'll find the weather pretty warm, I can tell you. Canvassing? You'll get canvassed, I fancy, before you grow much taller." And off stalked the indignant Percy, promising himself a particularly pleasant afternoon, as soon as his errand to the captain was over. Yorke was at work, with his lexicon and notebooks on the table, when the envoy entered. "Well, is that you or your brother?" inquired he. "Not my brother, if I know it," said Percy. "That's not much help. He says exactly the same when I put the same question to him." "He does, does he? I owe Wally one already, now--" "Thanks--then you're not Wally. What do you want?" "This note. Clapperton said I was to wait while you read it, and bring an answer if there was one." Yorke read the note, and smiled as he did so. Percy wished he knew what was in it. He didn't know Clapperton could make jokes. "Any answer?" he demanded. "Yes--there's an answer," said the captain. He took out a list of names from his pocket, and compared it with that on Clapperton's letter. Then he wrote as follows:-- "Dear Clapperton,--The fifteen against Rendlesham is already made up as follows," (here followed the list). "You will see it includes six of the names you sent. We must play the best team we can; and I think we shall have it. "Yours truly,-- "Cecil Yorke." "There's the answer. Take it over at once." "I like his style," growled Percy to himself. "He don't seem to have a `please' about him. Catch me hurrying myself for him; I've got this precious canvasser to look after." And he returned at a leisurely pace to the rendezvous. No Fisher minor was there! That young gentleman, when left to himself, found himself in a perspiration of doubt and fear. He had made a most awkward blunder, and confessed the delinquencies of his comrades to the very last man they would wish to know of them. That was bad enough; but, to make things worse, he was to be let in for the blame of the whole affair, and, with Master Percy's assistance, was shortly to experience warm weather among the Moderns.