“You don’t seem to feel half as bad about losing as I thought you would,” said she, as she complied with his request. “It’s not like you, for you used to feel awful cut up when you got beat at baseball.”
“Oh, well, we’ll even this up with Highland all right next game,” asserted Don, sitting down to the table. “It’s no use crying over spilled milk.”
“You never cry, but you do feel bad, and this is the first time I ever saw you like this. I don’t understand it.”
Don came near laughing aloud, but repressed the inclination with an effort. When he had satisfied his hunger he went up to his room. He felt like going out to see if he could not find somebody to give him the particulars of the game, but his pride caused him to decide not to pursue such a course, as he did not wish any of his former companions to think he would take that much interest in the affairs of the eleven.
Some boys in Don’s position would have sought the defeated players for the purpose of jeering at them and deriding them, and it must be confessed that Scott was strongly tempted to do so; but he decided that it would cut them far more if he made a pretension of absolute and utter indifference, and in this he was right. A person who can deport himself with an air of indifference and unconcern toward those whom he dislikes has not only won a victory over himself and his natural inclinations to show scorn or hatred for his enemies, but he causes those enemies to feel that he considers them of such small consequence that he does not even take the trouble to become annoyed or offended at them. In the long run, indifference is a keener weapon than open scorn and hatred.
So Don remained at home, seeking to pass the evening as best he could. Wishing to do some writing, and finding in his desk no pens to suit him, he went down into his father’s office. Having lighted the hanging lamp, he sat down at the doctor’s open desk, and there he was writing busily some time later when a gentle tapping sounded on the window near his elbow. Looking round, he saw the outlines of a face close to the glass and recognized Leon Bentley, who was peering in at him with a smirking grin of conciliation and friendliness.
CHAPTER XXI.
BENTLEY TELLS HOW IT HAPPENED.
Don’s first feeling was one of annoyance and anger, and he was about to sharply command the fellow to go away when he suddenly changed his mind.
Leon could tell him all about the game, and there was nothing he then desired to know quite as much as the full particulars of the contest that had resulted in a victory for the Highlanders.
“I’ll let him in and find out all about it,” he decided, as Bentley nodded and beckoned. Then he motioned for the boy outside to come round to the front door, at which he admitted him a few moments later.