Tempest eyed him coldly.
“I said Keran,” he remarked significantly; “Phil Keran.”
There was an undercurrent of contempt in his voice which cut Blake like the lash of a whip and made him step back involuntarily. Before he could recover his customary poise, the fellows spread out in the regular formation, Keran, grinning from ear to ear, in the coveted place at right end.
Blake had never been so furious in his life. He could not understand how it had all come about. For a moment he was tempted to leave the field. He had even turned and was about to stride off without a word, when he realized that such a move would be folly. He would gain nothing by it, and his chances for ever accomplishing his end would be totally ruined.
With a sullen scowl on his face, he walked over to his place on the scrub. After all, Keran was only in the varsity on sufferance. He might not make good, and then Blake’s chance would come.
CHAPTER VII
THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME.
It must not be supposed that Bob Hollister’s course was an easy one. It was, on the contrary, desperately hard. A dozen times a day bitter thoughts and regrets for what he had given up assailed him, but he managed to thrust these aside, and, with Dick’s help, he kept doggedly at his work, encouraged by the very evident progress he made in his studies.
The story of his renunciation of football and his steady application to his books seemed to have become known to the faculty. Certain it was that, one and all, they realized what an effort he was making to stick with the class, and most of them did their best to help him along.
As for Merriwell, every minute he could spare was devoted to coaching Bob. The latter almost lived in Dick’s rooms. Every evening they went over the work for the next day together, Dick patiently explaining every point, bolstering up Hollister’s failing courage, making a regular hermit of himself for the sake of the other man’s future.