The news was quickly abroad, discussed in every room and at every dormitory entrance. The boys naturally favored the unjustly oppressed, though some of the older fellows of influence, like John Curtis, Dickinson, and Melvin, who were not baseball players, sided with the Principal. Sands was disconsolate, Flanahan furious. The latter had talked with Mr. Graham, and returned greatly excited and able to give only a most incoherent account of the interview. On the main subject the pitcher’s explanations were not entirely satisfactory to his supporters. He asserted wildly, denied sweepingly, and fortified his statements by expletives which repelled the decent-minded.
Sands himself was somewhat ashamed of his protégé, as he led him into the Principal’s room for the hearing and sat down at his side, near the door. Mr. Graham had not yet come in. Melvin and Varrell sat near his desk at the upper end of the long room, opposite the door; at the side were Curtis and Arthur Wheelock, the manager, and several others.
The tension of the waiting seemed to be telling on Flanahan’s nerves. His naturally red face had taken on a deeper hue; his eyes shifted rapidly from point to point; his fists opened and closed and shook convulsively; his head nodded in sudden jerks in emphatic support of the whispered assertions which Sands seemed to be rather combating than listening to.
“Did you hear that?” said Varrell, with his eyes fixed on the pair.
“Of course I didn’t, nor you either,” said Melvin. “I can’t hear whispers at that distance. Sands looks like a man trying to hold a fighting bulldog. I don’t envy him his friend.”
“Sh!” said Varrell, still staring at the two. “The fellow’s wild. He’s just threatened to smash Mr. Graham’s face. Sands can’t control him. Quiet! I’ll repeat for you.”
Dick gaped in wonder. He could see Flanahan’s fierce manner, his clenched fists and lips excitedly moving, but not a single distinct sound reached him. Varrell, with eyes glued on the gesticulating man, began to repeat in phrases which matched the pitcher’s agitated nods:—
“I’m no professional. Whoever says so is a liar. If he tells me so again, I’ll smash his face. Yes, I will; and I don’t care who he is, whether he’s Principal of this old place or not. He’s no better than me. I’ll take it out of him if he gives me any lip,—just see if I don’t! I know what he’s been up to. He’s been sneaking around Brockville. What I got from Brockville was too small to count,—hardly more than expenses. Let me alone, I tell you. I can take care of myself. ‘Fired?’ What do I care about being fired! Just let him say a word and I’ll baste him one in the jaw that he’ll remember.”—“I’ve omitted the cuss words,” added Varrell, in another tone.
Mr. Graham entered and walked toward his desk.
“Did he really say that, Wrenn?” whispered Dick. “Are you fooling or not?”