Despite his accents of bravado, Kenny’s voice faltered a little at the end. Merriwell leaned forward earnestly.
“Jack, you don’t mean that,” he exclaimed; “you can’t mean it!”
The quarter back nodded emphatically.
“Yes, I do,” he said.
But there was almost a sob in his voice. Angry and excited as he had been up to this point, leaving the team seemed the only natural thing to do.
Merriwell’s face grew very serious.
“You can’t realize what you’re saying, Jack,” he said, in a low, clear voice. “You can’t possibly be in earnest when you talk about leaving the team four days before the great game of the season. Surely you know, old fellow, that such a step would give Harvard the victory as certain as fate. We haven’t any one who could possibly take your place and run things the way you do. Gillis hasn’t got the head. That isn’t soft soap; it’s the truth.”
Kenny’s slim fingers were busy tracing intricate patterns on the upholstered arm of the chair. His eyes were averted.
“Gillis could do what I’ve been doing for the past two weeks,” he muttered, in a low tone. “Any dub could do that. Tempest don’t want a fellow to think for himself.”
“Did you ever try and put yourself in Don Tempest’s place, Jack?” Dick asked swiftly. “Did you ever try and figure out what sort of a man he was—what kind of a mind he has, I mean?”