Directly the gloomy meal was over, Dick hurried across the campus to Vanderbilt and ascended to Kenny’s rooms. He found the quarter back sunk into the depths of a big chair, his face black as a thundercloud.
He looked up quickly as Merriwell entered in response to his gruff invitation, and shook his head emphatically.
“Isn’t a bit of use, Dick,” he said positively. “You’re just wasting your time.”
Merriwell smiled.
“You old idiot!” he exclaimed, dropping down in a chair opposite Kenny. “Have you any idea what you’re talking about?”
The quarter back pursed up his lips firmly.
“You’re after me to make it up with that fool Tempest,” he returned quickly. “But I won’t do it! I’ve stood about all of his lip that I’m going to. It’s nearly drove me insane.”
Dick crossed his legs and linked his hands loosely over one knee.
“It was pretty trying, wasn’t it?” he said quietly. “But you know, old man, Tempest didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just his way. He’s so keen about the game Saturday, and so afraid we won’t get those plays into our nuts, that he forgets everything else.”
“The deuce he does!” retorted Kenny. “He’s done nothing but hammer and pound at me since he came back on the field. You might think I didn’t have any sense at all. It’s nag, nag, nag the whole time. ‘Do this, do that,’ without giving a fellow a chance to do it himself. What am I quarter for, I’d like to know, if I can’t use a little judgment? I’ve played football as long as he has, and been on the varsity longer, yet he treats me like a perfect kid. I tell you, Dick, I won’t stand for it any longer. I—don’t care if I am—out of the game—Saturday.”