“You blamed little runt!” exploded Tempest as soon as he got his breath. “If I don’t——”
He broke off abruptly as Dick Merriwell stepped quickly to his side and touched his arm warningly. A few swift, whispered words passed between the two. Dick seemed to be urging something to which the captain at length reluctantly agreed.
“That’ll do for to-day,” he said shortly, his eyes sweeping over the faces of the waiting men. “Three o’clock to-morrow, sharp!”
The group instantly melted away, most of the men being eager to get out of earshot to talk over this new, and not altogether unexpected, development. Dick, Tempest, and the coaches remained behind.
“It’s a case of insubordination, pure and simple!” the captain burst out. “He’ll have to go!”
There was no word of acquiescence from the men around him, and Tempest flashed a swift glance of surprise at their serious faces.
“You don’t agree with me?” he questioned shortly.
“Where are you going to get another quarter at this stage of the game?” growled Bill Fullerton, the head coach.
“Why, Gillis, of the scrub,” Tempest answered. “He knows all the signals and has the plays down pat.”
Almost in spite of himself, however, there was an undercurrent of doubt in his voice.