“Punk along side of Kenny,” Fullerton said tersely.
“But I can’t take that line of talk and do nothing,” protested Tempest. “In twenty-four hours there wouldn’t be any discipline left.”
He glanced at Merriwell questioningly, expecting confirmation of his views, but Dick slowly shook his head.
“It wouldn’t do, Don,” he said slowly. “At least, not at this late day. If we had a couple of weeks before the game, Gillis might be hammered into shape; but it would be suicidal to put him in Kenny’s place now.”
He hesitated a moment and then went on quietly:
“I hate butting in, old fellow, but once in a while a chap’s got to. You don’t mind if I speak rather freely, do you, Don?”
Tempest shook his head, but it was plain from the expression on his face that advice was not especially palatable.
“Spit it out, Dick,” he returned shortly.
“It’s just this, Don,” Merriwell explained. “I think that, in a way, you’re a little to blame for Kenny’s flare-up. He’s been sore for quite some time. I’ve been watching him closely, and I rather expected the outbreak would come before this. The reason why it didn’t was because Jack was doing his best to keep his temper. I think he realized, as well as you or I could, the folly, even danger, of a split in the team at this juncture; and I honestly believe that he kept a grip on himself until he simply couldn’t hold in any longer.”
Tempest’s face darkened.