“Say, Morrie, ease up a bit,” cautioned Burgess. “Pretty quick we’ll be thrown out of here.”
“Yes, what’s the use of losing your temper that way,” put in Hewett nervously. “The thing’s done, and it can’t be helped now.”
Morrison glared at him.
“Who wouldn’t lose his temper?” he frothed. “You would, if you had a little more red blood in your veins. It’s enough to drive a man crazy to have this upstart from Yale step in and get all the credit after I’ve pitched the whole season and done all the hard work.”
“Now, look here, Morrie,” George Burgess said sharply, “there’s no sense in cussing Merriwell that way. He’s no more to blame than I am. After you had stepped out it was only decent for him to volunteer to take your place, especially when Gardiner’s bringing him out to the field started the whole row.”
Morrison took a gulp from his high ball and set down the glass with such violence that some of the liquid slopped over on the table.
“Oh, so you’re going back on me, are you?” he sneered. “Maybe you’d like to boot-lick Gardiner and get back on the team.”
The stout fellow flushed a little and a dangerous look came into his small eyes.
“That will about do for you,” he said in a tone of suppressed anger. “You know I’m no quitter.”
Several men entered the room at that moment, and, as Morrison’s eyes fell on one of them, he calmed down suddenly.